


Within and Without

by louiseb



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-01-07 11:59:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 42,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1119572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louiseb/pseuds/louiseb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>NOW FINISHED "When ancient seafaring ships fought battles the decks would become slippery with blood. They used to scatter sand to give the sailors traction as they fought to reload the cannons. Starships don't carry sand. But right now, on deck 5, that looks like an oversight."</p><p>Something is wrong on Deneb III. And something is wrong with Kirk too. Attempt to write TOS style with its roots in a TOS episode.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> With huge thanks to the genius of Richard Matheson.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can't tell you which episode inspired this story or it'll ruin the plot. But stick with this to chapter four and all will become clear.

**Within and Without**

**An original ST:TOS fanfic**

Louise B 

 

  
[Chapter 1](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1119572/chapters/2255691)

  
The day the wounded arrive is the day she remembers why she's decided to leave Starfleet.

It starts slow. Just two of them -- human, bleeding heavily, unconscious. Silver incandescence solidifying on the sickbay floor. She almost trips over them. They're holding each other. Hands clutching clothes, legs intertwined. She can't see their faces. Maybe that's just as well.

Over the shriek of the red alert Chapel shouts for Doctor McCoy, for Nurse Tokura. But as they come running, there's another transport behind her. This time it's an Andorian, blue fluid pooling on the floor as soon as his form stabilises. He's conscious and groaning -- reaching up, fingers grasping the edge of the biobed, eyes desperate.

The eyes. They're the last of her clear memories.

Because before Doctor McCoy can even finish his rant to the bridge about what the hell is going on, and why hasn't he been warned about casualties, and who are these folks anyway 'cos they sure as hell aren't Starfleet, there are three more. Shimmering bundles appearing in corners, under biobeds, curled in foetal positions, silent.

They don't even have time to assess their condition before she hears the shouting from the corridor. And when she sticks her head through the doors – well, that's when the thinking has to stop. Action is all that matters now. She can't even count the bodies. And this is worse. Because the arrival of the children has started. And so has the screaming.

  
-oOo-  

"Spock!"

"Vessel is the colony ship SS  _Demeter._  In transport orbit around Deneb III. Ship's manifest... logged as 140 colonists, 40 crew."

When Kirk kills the bridge klaxon he can hear the reports flooding in from every deck. "What the hell's going on over there?"

"Unclear at the present time, Captain. Life signs are clustered around every transporter station."

"Uhura?"

"It's chaos, sir. The distress call is on an automatic loop. I am unable to open a channel to the _Demeter_ bridge."

"Keep trying, Lieutenant."

The comms unit in the arm of his chair whistles. "Bridge."

"Jim, you've got to stop this." The call from sickbay sounds panicked. He can't remember ever hearing Bones sound panicked, not in his own sickbay. "They're still coming. Dozens of them. We can't possibly.-- the voice is suddenly muffled. "Yeah, I'll be right there. Use the respirator! Jim, you've got to raise the shields. We're not designed to-- Oh goddammit! Five more. Raise the blasted shields, Jim. We'll send medical teams over to them. We need triage." And he's gone.

Kirk looks over to his science officer. "Analysis, Mr. Spock."

"Insufficient data for full analysis. However, judging by the type and extent of injuries now being reported, it would seem weapons are continuing to be deployed by an unknown force and this is a still developing scenario. I submit that it is not possible to implement Doctor McCoy's triage suggestion on the colony ship at the current time."

"Agreed." He thumbs the comms button. "Sorry, Bones. I'm not raising the shields. These people need our help. They're dying over there."

The voice is shouted, across a distance. "They're dying over here too, Jim. We need help."

"Hang in there, Doctor. Uhura. Open a channel -- ship wide comms."

"Go ahead, Captain."

"Attention all hands. This is a medical emergency. We have become a hospital ship. An unknown number of civilian casualties have transferred from the colony ship to the _Enterprise_. All personnel with level 2 medical training are to report to deck five. Immediately. Repeat, this is a medical emergency."

He's on his feet, heading for the turbo lift, almost before his finger has left the switch.

"Mr. Spock, you're with me. Mr. Sulu, you have the con. Keep her within transport range. And keep sensors on long range scan for any sign of approaching vessels."

"Aye, aye, Captain."

-oOo-

  
When ancient seafaring ships fought battles the decks would become slippery with blood. They used to scatter sand to give the sailors traction as they fought to reload the cannons. Starships don't carry sand. But right now, on deck 5, that looks like an oversight.

Why is he thinking about sand? Because otherwise he'd have to think about the little girl at his feet. She's about five, reaching up, trying to stand, trying to say something he can't hear above the cacophony echoing round the corridor. The bass notes are the groans of the wounded, with a treble of screams and a percussion of shouted orders from medics and crew.

He bends down. He still can't hear her as she whispers in his ear. Is that a word? A sigh? But then she's sliding down in a dead faint, so slowly it's not hard to catch her. She's so light he can barely feel her in his arms as he steps over the nearest prone casualty and carries her into sickbay. Where he stands transfixed at the door. This isn't sickbay, or not a sickbay he recognises.

Every surface is covered in bodies. Not just the biobeds, nor the counters swept clear of medical instruments, but the floor -- a shifting sea of muted fabrics and sprawled limbs and seeping fluid. And in the middle of it all is McCoy, crouching over a woman dressed in the sombre brown coveralls of a colonist. She's barely able to lift her head from the floor, eyes wild. And then she's pointing, finger shaking, mouth stretched in a soundless scream. Pointing at him? No, pointing at the man in red behind him.

The finger jabs again. And now she's making sounds. The words are hissed not spoken. "Starfleet scum. Redshirts." And she's screaming, screaming abuse until the hiss of the hypospray hushes her to silence.

-oOo-

"Don't keep telling me what we don't know, Spock. What DO we know?"

If the  _Enterprise's_  First Officer is offended by the frustration in his Captain's voice he does not let it show. The Captain's first instinct is to action. That they are here, in the briefing room, rather than already beaming aboard the colony ship is a tribute to the persuasive power of Vulcan logic.

"Deneb III colony was established some 27 months ago. Starfleet appointed Commander Rawlson as Commander in chief. He brought with him a specially selected team of Starfleet specialists and civilian engineers. Conditions on Deneb are known to be...challenging. Therefore--"

"Wait a minute," Kirk interrupts. "Did you say Rawlson?"

"Correct, Captain. Paul Rawlson. Are you familiar with the Commander?"

Kirk frowns. "I'm not sure. There’s something..." He looks down at his hands clasped tight and white in front of him on the briefing room table. "It'll come to me. Carry on... What about the colony ship?"

Spock glances back at the padd notes he does not need. It is unlike the captain to forget a name. But the last few weeks have been...difficult.

"Colony ship SS  _Demeter_  was diverted here by the Federation when the latest Romulan incursion made their original destination untenable. It seems to have been a somewhat hasty decision. The ship's communication log shows several attempts by Commander Rawlson to dissuade the _Demeter_ from approaching Deneb III. It would appear they were not ready to receive visitors. After some twenty-six weeks in transit, however, the colonists were apparently unwilling to take no for an answer."

"So who's on board the ship now?"

"No-one, Captain."

"No-one?"

"We can detect no life signs. Unfortunately there are fifteen bodies on board, most in the area of the transporter stations. Those colonists and crew who are conscious report they lost control of the bridge and were attacked within minutes of attaining orbit but their reports are confused. Those who survived abandoned ship via emergency transport. I submit it is an indication of extreme panic that they would attempt such a risky manoeuvre. Seventy-two are now aboard the  _Enterprise._  The remainder chose to beam down to the planet surface. Their condition is unknown but it would appear they were followed. Whoever, or whatever, attacked them is no longer on board. We have been unable to contact Commander Rawlson or any of his team."

"So before they went dark, what reports were we getting from Deneb III?"

Spock flicks back through the log records. "Some grumbles about supplies. No reports of significant problems. However, the last few transmissions have been incomplete and contained corrupted data. And they were overdue for inspection as you know."

Kirk nods. The  _Enterprise_  had been scheduled to visit the fledgling colony some four months earlier. They had been delayed.

No-one at Starfleet Command had expected the skirmishes with the Bandi rebels to develop into a full blown diplomatic crisis. Or that once the crisis was underway and hostilities declared rebel tactics would include the distinctly unoriginal approach of taking hostages. Included among those taken captive, for several weeks, was the _Enterprise_ 's Captain.

Starfleet Command has an excuse. They are half a galaxy away and their officers pilot desks not starships. That no-one on board the _Enterprise_ had predicted that outcome, given the known tensions in the Bandi system, continues to trigger an inner disturbance in the usually ordered thinking of the ship's First Officer; a circular pattern of repetitive reflection which a non-Vulcan might have termed guilt, but which he prefers to think of as a continuing re-evaluation of faulty logic.

It could have been worse. As far as Spock can ascertain, a prolonged period in solitary confinement on rough rations has done little to dent the Captain's habitual self-assurance. Only yesterday he brushed off McCoy's attempt to run his psyche evaluation with a joke about recommending a spell of R and R at Bandi expense to Starfleet as a sure-fire remedy for any harried starship captain with a few pounds to lose.

Yet the Vulcan remains uneasy. It is his experience that the Captain does not fare well when faced with prolonged periods for introspection.

Spock looks up at the expectant faces around the table and realises he has paused too long.

"As I was saying, conditions on Deneb III are sub-optimal for a colony. The average temperature of the northern continent is 229 degrees kelvin making it uninhabitable under current Federation criteria. While the southern archipelago is reportedly rich in minerals, poor quality soils will need substantial intervention before they can sustain agriculture. In addition the climate is subject to erratic weather patterns. The team selected to accompany Commander Rawlson are experts in their field. Olson - medical. Chang -- terraformer. Pettigrew -- hostile permaculture...."

As he lists Starfleet personnel, the assembled officers in the briefing room react with approval. These are names they recognise; the authors of papers that are required reading at the Academy.

Yet Spock is aware he does not have his Captain's full attention. Kirk sits quietly, head slightly bowed towards the screen in front of him. There is a smear of blood on his left sleeve. Spock sees Kirk notice it, sees him rotate the offending gold cuff so it rests out of sight against the table. And Spock notices something else. The tip of Kirk's right index finger is tapping his thumb under the table. The movement is tiny. Almost a tic and almost imperceptible to anyone except a Vulcan First Officer who prides himself on taking note of everything that might indicate his Captain's current state of mind.

Suddenly Spock is quite sure he does not want the command team to notice their Captain's distraction. He has reached the end of his list of known facts. At this point it is customary for Kirk to ask for thoughts from his senior officers. This is the Captain’s modus operandi; to take soundings from the group, to gather as many disparate opinions as exist, and then to make his decision. As a command approach it is popular with his officers. But Kirk is staring at his screen. Spock clears his throat and says

"Your thoughts, gentlemen."

McCoy, blood-stained and weary, is the first to react to this break in _Enterprise_ custom and practice. He seems about to object but then looks across the table at his CO. For all his reputation for swear first, think later, Spock has found the ship's doctor to be surprisingly astute at picking up signals, particularly when those signals' point source is Jim Kirk. With a swift glance across the table at the bowed head in command gold the doctor makes a decision and swivels his chair to address the Vulcan.

"I'll give you my thoughts, Spock, for what they're worth -- there was a psychopath on the loose over there. Possibly a whole damn army of psychopaths. The injuries we're treating aren't collateral damage. We're not talking about a few civilians caught in the cross fire here. Those people were targeted. Some of 'em have been tortured."

Security chief Giotto sits up at that. "Tortured? Who by?" Kirk too, lifts his head.

McCoy purses his lips. "Well, that's what I can't figure." He stops, reluctant to say what must be said. There is almost apology in the look he gives his CO. "You heard that woman. And she's not the only one screaming blue murder any time anyone from security or engineering shows up. The evidence is right there in front of us. Whoever's done this they're wearing Starfleet uniforms."

-oOo-

  
Before McCoy's words have time to fully register with the room there's a whistle from the comms unit.

"Captain. We're picking up a signal from the planet surface. It's weak but I think I can filter out most of the interference."

"Put it straight through here, Uhura."

The image that flickers on the briefing room screen is clouded and grey and at first Spock thinks the communication officer's filters are failing. Then he realises. There is rain on the lens of the device transmitting from the surface; moisture beading and blurring the lines of half-finished buildings silhouetted against a muddy green sky. The unit speakers fill the briefing room with the rasping breath of the holder of the vidcom unit and then a voice, speaking Standard:

"Goddammit. Miller to unit 3. Come in unit 3." The screen tips and darkens. A face appears, looking down as if to adjust the controls. "Blast it to hell. All units...if you can hear me, respond."

Kirk snaps forward to thumb open the channel. "Miller. This is James Kirk of the USS _Enterprise_. Can you read me?"

There's a hiss of static, but Spock's acute hearing picks up a sound behind the hiss, an indrawn breath.

"Kirk? What the--? _Captain_ Kirk? From the  _Enterprise?"_

"Affirmative. What is your position?"

Spock's fingers are already flying over his padd, calling up the colony datafile. He leans over to show Kirk the highlighted result.

 _Miller, Marcus J._  
Rank: Lieutenant.  
Currently assigned: Security, Deneb III.

Kirk nods.

"Lieutenant Miller, I repeat, what is your position? Are you in danger? Are there others with you?"

The voice is breathless. It's hard to tell whether its owner has been running or is simply suffering a bad case of hero worship. " _The_ Captain Kirk. That picture..."

Spock raises an eyebrow as he keys in the code to proxy in to his science station. Uhura is already ahead of him, triangulating the signal between the vidcom, the bounce point and the  _Enterprise_  and feeding the data to his screen. The longer they can keep the two way communication going the more chance they have of pinpointing the source.

Kirk knows this. Spock does not even have to look up from his screen to sense they are working in tandem. Kirk leans closer to the unit's microphone.

"Miller. Can you clarify what's going on down there? Report, Lieutenant."

The screen darkens as a red sleeve wipes the dripping lens. The man at the other end can be seen in profile, looking right and left.

"Hold on a moment, _Enterprise_. It's not safe. Let me just--"

The image tips crazily and the view changes to one of muddy boots and blurred fabric. When it steadies, it is apparent Miller has taken shelter. He is inside but the building's power seems to be off; the Lieutenant's face is indistinct and unfocused in the gloom. He is squatting beside a console. Or what used to be a console before a phaser blast reduced it to a crumpled mass of fused polymer.

"Are you still there, _Enterprise_?" The voice is low and strained. And young. He sounds very young.

Kirk softens his tone. "We're still here, Miller. What can you tell us? Are you alone?"

The head swivels. "I think so, sir. When the colonists started arriving it was chaos. Three of us took a chance. We got away. But they..." The voice sinks to a whisper. "They're not responding on the secure channel. I don't think they made it. And the others... they're looking for me. I can hear them."

There's terror there now, real terror, and the shakiness of the image has nothing to do with the quality of the signal. Kirk reaches forward with both hands, as if holding the edges of the screen will steady a trembling hand and hold this young man together.

"Who's looking for you, Miller? Has there been an invasion?"

"No... no, sir. No invasion." The head turns again, craning around the corner of the console and listening, before he continues. "I didn't understand. None of us did. Not at first. They looked so... well, it's hard to tell, sir. But then people started disappearing. And we realised... It's like part of you is missing."

Spock can sense Kirk's frustration. These disjointed sentences make no sense. What Kirk needs is a succinct, informative briefing from a witness to whatever catastrophe has befallen the colony below. What he's getting is a response that's close to hysteria. Kirk keeps his tone even, offering measured reassurance even as his grip on the screen tightens.

"Lieutenant Miller. Marcus. You need to hold on, son."

Spock has seen his Captain steady an entire starship with this voice. The young man on the other end of the comm link draws a shuddering breath and, nods, wiping his sleeve across his nose. It's an oddly childlike gesture.

Kirk continues, "We're sending help. If you can just give us the co-ordinates--"

"No!" The whisper has turned to an almost shout. "No -- you mustn't.  _Enterprise._  Listen to me. Don't use the transporter. For god's sake...don't--"Then Miller's eyes widen and his face goes rigid. And now the briefing room can hear what he's hearing. Phaser fire. Drawing closer. "Oh gods. They're coming."

The crash is loud enough to distort the sound from the speakers. The transmitting vidcom unit is on the floor, spinning. As it slows and steadies for a moment the watching officers get a glimpse of movement. Boots approaching. One lifts. Miller's voice rises to a scream.

"Please. No. No --"

A brilliant flash outlines his silhouette in phaser fire. The link cuts to black.

No-one speaks into the silence that follows.

Then Kirk lifts his hands from the screen and scans the room, ending on his First Officer who nods a yes to the unvoiced question. They have the co-ordinates. Kirk stands, two fingers of each hand resting on the table. His voice is quiet with an undercurrent of steel.

"Right, gentlemen. I want a landing party. McCoy -- I need you to put together a team of medics with the best field kit you can muster. Take anyone M'Benga can spare." He lifts a hand to quell the immediate protest. "I know you're swamped, Bones, but there are casualties down there, maybe even more than there are up here. Spock, you're with me too. Giotto, we'll need a security team. Tell them to wear their blacks. I don't want any more hysteria over red shirts. Scotty, you'll take the con. I want detailed scans around Miller's co-ordinates..."

The orders continue. Equipment, contingency plans, a message to Starfleet. A skeleton crew to beam aboard the  _Demeter._

It is the Chief Engineer who voices the question they are all silently asking.

"Are you intending to _beam_ down, Captain?"

"Subject to the results of the latest scans, yes, Mr. Scott. Time is a factor here. With the weather patterns reported on Deneb III a shuttle will take too long and there's no guarantee it won't get stranded. Last time I checked the transporters were in working order, were they not, engineer?"

Scott bristles. "My transporters are in tip top shape, Captain. I just thought... since yon laddie warned us--"

"It's my judgment that Lieutenant Miller was in no fit state to make an accurate report." Kirk stops, frowning. "It's odd. I know the lad was terrified. But he was security. He made Lieutenant. I would have expected..." He tails off.

But Spock agrees with the thought that follows. Selection procedures for Starfleet security are rigorous; discipline in that branch of the service is rigid and promotion to Lieutenant takes drive and determination. None of those attributes were evident in the young man in the red shirt whose image still lingers on an empty screen.

  
[Chapter ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1119572/chapters/2255691)2

  
After so many years of galloping around the cosmos he should be used to it by now. But he's only more aware of what can go wrong. Kirk likes to tease McCoy about his eternal distrust of pattern buffers but, if the truth be told, he's never felt as blasé as he pretends.

Even as, once again, his molecules reassemble in apparently the right order there's always that disconnect; a disconcerting lag as if his consciousness arrives a moment before he has a body to inhabit. And then... Well, everyone's different. But for him the first sense to return on reconnection is always smell. Lush alien vegetation, ancient dust in heated air, sharp metallic winds -- every planetfall has its own scent.

Deneb III smells of decay. Unclean. He can taste the rot's sweetness at the back of his throat.

He's not the only one. As the team around him take in their surroundings he can see them react although they're too professional to pass comment. At least the smell doesn't seem to have an immediate source. As the sensors promised, they're alone. The buildings around them are standard prefab warehouses and they appear deserted. But Kirk wants to be sure.

"Giotto. Take your men and make a swing around the perimeter. Phasers on heavy stun. And remember anyone wearing a Starfleet uniform may be hostile."

A gesture from the Chief and his team melt into the shadows, almost invisible in their blacks. Not for the first time Kirk wonders why Starfleet generally chooses to outfit those on the front line in a colour more suitable for target practice than camouflage; yet another baffling anomaly he plans to challenge as part of his end of mission debrief.

End of mission. Three banal little words that signpost the end of Kirk's world. That debrief is looming ever closer. Along with decisions to be made about his future. About Spock's future. In his more optimistic moments Kirk hopes he might have some say in those decisions. In his darker moods, such as the ones that shadowed a certain cell in a Bandi outpost, he's convinced certain stuffed shirt admirals back at Starfleet command have already determined where he's going and it's not anywhere good.

Which gives him something of an odd perspective on this expedition to a planet that stinks of death. Despite the horror of what's happened on the _SS Demeter_ , despite the horrors which no doubt lie ahead, at least here he can make a difference. At least he's where he belongs. Although, he thinks wryly, giving himself a mental kick in the hindquarters, if this penchant for navel gazing continues then some members of his command team might start to challenge those assumptions.

McCoy and his team of medics are gathering their equipment, stacking containers and slinging medkits over their shoulders. Meanwhile his science officer is already frowning over his tricorder readings and Kirk moves to his shoulder.

"Anything, Mr. Spock?"

"No life signs in the immediate vicinity, Captain. But these readings are unexpected." The Vulcan taps the screen. "See, here... and here. The fluctuations are at the top end of the magnetic scale. The survey team who visited several years ago provided a comprehensive geological analysis. These wavelengths do not match the spectra for any mineral I would expect to find on Deneb."

Kirk cannot summon up the same fascination for Deneb's geology. Right now, his focus is on finding the colonists who fled the _Demeter_ , and tracking down the elite Starfleet team who are responsible for colonising this planet yet appear to have vanished.

But before he can spell out his disinterest to his First Officer the planet has another unpleasant surprise in store. The rumble from the sky has him reaching for his phaser before he realises the attack is meteorological. The rain begins with no preamble and escalates from downpour to drenching torrent in seconds. And seconds is all it takes for his eyes to start stinging and for the bare skin on his face and hands to redden and tingle.

McCoy heads over, holding a med kit over his head. He has to shout over the roar of falling water. "Looks like we packed everything we needed except the damned umbrellas. I don't like this, Jim. It doesn't feel right. We need to get inside."

Kirk eyes the nearest dark doorway. He doesn't relish the idea of being trapped within four walls. But his science officer is studying his tricorder readings.

"Captain, I also recommend we take shelter. This precipitation is registering a high concentration of active hydrogen ions, ph. 3.5."

Acid rain, thinks Kirk grimly. God knows what possessed Starfleet to consider this planet a suitable target for colonisation. The security section carry protective clothing but stores didn't have enough readily available kit to equip the whole team.

"I concur, Mr. Spock." He turns to the rest of the team and shouts, gesturing toward the nearest warehouse. "Go, go -- inside, now!"

As he watches the medics head towards the doorway he flips open his dripping communicator. "Kirk to Giotto. Report."

"Giotto here. We're all clear, Captain."

"Commander, we're heading inside. Post look outs as needed and then follow us in."

"Acknowledged. Giotto out."

There is no power inside the warehouse. Sea-green light filters through the skylights giving their wet skin an unhealthy pallor. Starfleet supplies have arrived and been unpacked here; the evidence is all around them and it feels a little like swimming underwater as the team step in slow motion past broken crates and empty containers. For a moment Kirk thinks he sees movement above him on the gantry but when he focuses his gaze and his phaser there's nothing there but the dangling seaweed ribbons of packing tape.

The smell is stronger inside and it doesn't take them long to discover why. The bodies are stacked under tarpaulins along one wall. Fourteen of them. The Starfleet issue boots are the giveaway. McCoy's face is grim as he scans.

"Eight males, six females. Varying ages. Varying stages of decomposition too." He swallows, and Kirk thinks it's not often he sees his ship's surgeon struggle for words. "Some of 'em have been here a while, Jim. Five weeks. Maybe more depending on diurnal temperature and the microbes on this godforsaken planet."

One of the junior medics is retching quietly in the corner. Kirk sympathises, the bile bitter in his own throat.

"Cause of death?" His voice sounds hoarse.

"Indeterminate. No signs of injury, minor contusions on some of 'em but nothing that should have proved fatal." McCoy frowns over his tricorder. "I'm seeing some sort of ante-mortem cellular breakdown here. But I can't be sure without access to the ship's lab."

"Right." Kirk pauses. These are Starfleet officers. They have died in the line of duty. But there's no time. "Bones, we need answers. Get Scotty to assign one of the science team and beam one of them up to the lab for a post-mortem."

A flash of anger. "And which one do you suggest we turn into a lab specimen, Captain?" Kirk opens his mouth to answer but the anger's gone as quickly as it came. "No, don't answer that. Sorry, Jim. The one who died most recently of course. Leave it with me."

"I want identification made a priority too, Doctor. Cross reference their tags with the latest colony records." He'll have to write the letters. To the families of officers he never met and will never now have the chance to know.

Kirk turns away from the tarpaulins, away from the raw emotion he can't afford right now. He can't escape the feeling that they're being watched. It's instinct that makes him look over to seek out the calm gaze of his First Officer but Spock is several metres away on the other side of the open doorway. It's a relief to leave the worst of the stench, to weave between the mess of broken crates and discarded packaging to join him.

The Vulcan is crouching beside a smear of yellow on the warehouse floor, tricorder whining.

"What have you found, Spock?"

"Fascinating. I need more data, a bigger sample. But, Captain, the combination of minerals here is unique. It cannot be a coincidence."

Before Spock can continue Giotto appears in the doorway, phaser raised. He makes an unmistakable downward gesture with both hands, calling for silence. McCoy, who has been hailing the bridge, closes his communicator slowly and takes a step back into the shadows.

And now Kirk can hear it too, boots marching, voices raised. He flattens himself against the wall and signs for the rest of the team to follow his lead. Giotto, closest to the doorway, keeps his phaser up. Spock flanks his other side, a reassuringly solid presence at his shoulder.

The voice that drifts through the open doorway is harsh. And oddly familiar.

"No, not in there. I told you W-4 has been cleared already. The latest stock went to W-5. Unless Rawlson's been hiding it again."

The voice's owner is silhouetted against the light in the doorway. Kirk stares at the muddy boots, puddling water, at the threshold and tightens his grip on his phaser. From behind another voice is unintelligible. The silhouette laughs but there is no mirth in the sound.

"Well, you'd better get used to the stench. I've heard the next lot are already falling like flies." The boots turn away. "I don't know why we don't leave them where they lie. Can't see the point in dragging bodies around. It not as if... Gods, does it ever stop raining on this hellhole…?"

The men move on and the next sentence is too far away to be heard. Once the coast is clear McCoy is up and beside him in a flash.

"Jim, did you see that? It can't be. But I could have sworn....that voice."

And Kirk turns to his ship's doctor and says slowly, "No, Bones, you're right. I saw his face." He seeks and finds confirmation in the eyes of his security chief. "Either the colony records are wrong and Lieutenant Marcus Miller has a twin brother. Or we've just seen proof of life after death."

 

  
[Chapter ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1119572/chapters/2255691)3

  
A suspicion is forming. But he cannot voice it. Not now, not here.

When Spock was four years old a distant clan uncle gave him a v'lay'nath as a present. Part jigsaw, part abacus, the cube was intended to inculcate the seamless beauty of logic in the youngest Vulcan children and Spock spent long hours sliding the smooth wooden pieces into place with a satisfying click. He would not be parted from it. Yet one day Sarek discovered his young son on the floor surrounded by a myriad of wooden shapes and biting back shameful tears.

"I wished to examine the mechanism within the cube," he explained. "I wished to discover if the colours could be arranged in an alternative configuration."

Sarek regarded his son gravely. "But my son, the creators of the v'lay'nath would have explored all configurations before arriving at the optimal arrangement. Your logic should have led you to this conclusion."

And, for the first time, Spock found he had to fight a seed of a rebellion, to bite back an argument he knew he could not win. It was the beginning of a pattern that was to shape the relationship between father and son.

But today, a Vulcan who no longer craves his father's approval, who indeed has heard himself described as the best First Officer in the fleet (despite, or perhaps because of, that apparently inbuilt desire to push the boundaries of assumed knowledge) is thinking of the lessons of the v'lay'nath.

A tricorder reading, the impossibility of the duplicate man in red, a memory of clutching fingers and a transporter shimmer. He can feel the wooden shapes move beneath his fingertips; can see them slide to form the inevitable cube.

His Captain stands apart. Issuing orders. He is dividing the security team and medics into search parties. The rain has eased to spitting drizzle and it is imperative that they find the missing colonists who may even now be "falling like flies." As the teams prepare to leave Spock knows that it is even more urgent that he imparts his suspicions. There is no logic in delay. Yet still he hesitates and watches James Kirk doing what he does best, a man more comfortable in command gold than anyone has any right to be. He remembers a time when that was not so. And he remembers the fear.

Then Spock looks again at his tricorder readings. And sees what he's been missing

  
-oOo-

  
A suspicion is forming. But he cannot voice it. Not now, not here.

His thoughts slide away, repelled by what his instincts are telling him. Rawlson -- the name suddenly in sharp focus on a message screen. A dead man standing at a doorway. "It's like part of you is missing," Miller had said. Jim Kirk knows what that feels like. He remembers.

He can't voice his suspicions to McCoy; if he's right the last thing they need now is an emotional response. There's only one person he can talk to about this. But when he turns Spock is nowhere to be seen.

Then he spots him. Tricorder in hand, Spock is on the far side of the warehouse, a flash of blue moving slowly towards the foot of the gantry and the shadows beneath. Stalking, Kirk thinks. And before he has time to extend the thought the stalker pounces; Spock disappears into darkness. Kirk finds he's running, although he's not conscious of ordering his feet to move, but before he reaches the far wall there's a yell of pain and his science officer reappears holding the arm of a very dirty, very angry young man in brown coveralls.

"Let me go!"

Kirk estimates he's about 12. Brown hair sticking up in all directions, wary blue eyes and a rag tied bandana style around his forehead. It gives him a rakish air, as if he's dressed up as a pirate for Halloween, but Kirk can see blood on the side of his face.

"Starfleet scum, bastard! Let me go..." The string of swear words is impressive in one so young. But a 12 year old, even a furious one, is no match for Vulcan strength. Spock, holding the struggling boy in one hand as easily as he holds the inanimate tricorder in the other, remarks calmly,

"I can assure you that in fact my mother was married to my father some 2.6 years before my birth and it is not wise or indeed possible to do as you suggest with those particular parts of my anatomy."

Kirk bends to hold the boy's shoulders and examine him. He thinks the blood, caked and flaking from forehead to cheek, is old but the dirt makes it hard to be sure. He shouts back across his shoulder, "Bones, get over here." Then, in the pause the boy takes for breath, he tries to hold his gaze. "Hey, son. We're not going to hurt you. What's your name?"

More swear words. But Kirk can see fear beneath the bluster. The boy is terrified. He keeps his voice gently conversational. "I'm Jim. This is my First Officer, Mr. Spock. You're from the _Demeter_ , aren't you?"

There's a gasp at that and a sudden silence. The boy is frowning as McCoy arrives beside them, tricorder and bedside manner at the ready.

"Well, now, who do we have here?" Without waiting for an answer, he lifts the rag gently and the captive winces then tries to pretend he didn't. "Ouch, now that looks a nasty cut. Why don't you let me have a look at that?" He slings the medkit off his shoulder and starts rummaging. "Now on the board the  _Enterprise_  I've had crewmen holler blue murder over smaller scratches than that. But I can see you're a brave lad—“

 

"The  _Enterprise?_  You're from the flagship?" There's no mistaking the awe in the boy's voice. He's stopped struggling.

"I'm the ship's doctor. And this is her captain, Captain Kirk. You're lucky we came along..." McCoy unties the bloody rag and hands it to the medic beside him who eyes it with distaste.

"Kirk. Captain...?" There's a dawning recognition. "So who's this? With the ears." The patient jerks an accusing thumb back at the Vulcan still holding him fast. Kirk nods at Spock who loosens his grip.

"I told you. This is Mr. Spock. He's from Vulcan." He drops his voice to a stage whisper. "And he's very sensitive about his ears. We've stopped teasing him about them now." Which earns him a startled smile from the boy and a raised eyebrow and twitch of the lips from the owner of the appendages under discussion. "Surely you know about Vulcans. Don't they have schools where you come from?"

The boy scowls. "Yeah, we did. We do. And I knew... it's just...We didn't have any Vulcans on the  _Demeter."_  He pulls his head away from McCoy's cleansing ministrations which are revealing a good deal of pale skin beneath the dirt and a cut which is deep enough to scar but smaller than the amount of blood suggested. "That stings."

McCoy stops spraying. "I'm not surprised. It's gone deep. Who did this to you, son?"

"I banged it. Caught in on the edge of the console... When I was..." he stops, eyeing the men around him with suspicion. McCoy pretends not to notice and bends to pull a tube from his kit.

"I'm going to put a field dressing on this. We'll have a go with the regenerator later. Unless, of course, you want a scar." The bandana-less pirate looks thoughtful.

Kirk tries again. "So are there any more of you from the _Demeter_....?" He lets the pause ask the question

"Jake," the boy supplies. "My name's Jake."

"Jake." Kirk confirms. "So, Jake, were you with anyone?"

The newly bandaged patient takes a deep breath.

"Yeah. My mom... she was with me when we beamed down. We had to leave. There were men. Redshirts. On the ship. They hurt people." His eyes cloud. "We didn't understand. We thought Starfleet were the good guys." There's accusation there.

Kirk reaches out and grasps a shoulder. "We are the good guys, Jake. Those men weren't Starfleet. Whatever they looked like. So what happened after you beamed down?"

Jake looks away, biting his lip. "When we got here mom made me hide. But the men beamed down too. They took her. And the others. They took all of them."

McCoy crouches down. "Where did they take them, Jake?"

"They didn't see me." Blue eyes plead to the men around him. "I did like mom said. I hid."

Kirk smiles. "You're pretty good at that, kid. We didn't see you, did we?" He looks up at Spock.

"Indeed," confirms his First Officer. "I was only able to detect your presence with the aid of a tricorder." Spock holds up the instrument in question. Kirk realises that for some reason he is still scanning the boy, tilting the tricorder up and down. “Your camouflage skills are impressive.”

Mollified, Jake gives a small smile.

"So they didn't see you," continues Kirk. "But you followed them, didn't you Jake?"

A mute nod.

"And where did they go?"

And an arm lifts, a dirty finger points. At the floor.

"Down there. They went down there."

"Down...?" Kirk's gaze follows the pointing finger. When he looks back quizzically at the finger's owner he gets a dazzling grin.

"If you like, I'll show you."

 

[Chapter ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1119572/chapters/2255691)4

  
On a planet made hostile by the elements, lashed by acid rain and scoured by hurricane force winds, it makes sense that the colonists have carved a refuge underground. What makes no sense is why the colony logs sent to Starfleet failed to outline this as the strategy pursued by Rawlson and his team.

They're standing at the entrance of a tunnel; unlined, black with dust and lit only intermittently, although there's evidence of both electrical conduits and rails for transport. No wonder Jake got so filthy so quickly, thinks Kirk, looking down with some affection at their young guide. Who is determined to lead the way down the tunnel. McCoy is just as determined he should be beamed to safety.

"Jim, he needs medical attention. And those are his people up there. They know him."

The would-be guide plants his feet and narrows his eyes. "My mom is down there," he says simply. And Kirk, perhaps remembering himself at a similar age on a planet in crisis, finds he has some sympathy with that point of view

"Captain, if I may, a word..." Spock walks to stand apart from the team, hands clasped behind his back. Kirk recognises that stance. He leaves McCoy grumbling and joins him.

"Yes, Mr. Spock. What's on your mind?"

"Those readings, Jim. The mineral residue..." The use of the first name, the hint of compassion in brown eyes. This is Spock delivering bad news. Then, "I have seen them only once before." And Kirk knows. The suspicion solidifies.

"Let me guess. Alpha 177, right?"

The pause and the raised eyebrow tells him that, even after all this time, he still has the capacity to exceed his First Officer's expectations. But Spock recovers quickly. "I should have surmised you would draw the same conclusion. Do you mind if I ask-?"

"--how I knew?" Kirk thinks for a moment, lifting his hand to rub the back of his neck. "Well, there was Miller. What he said, how he behaved. And then the duplicate. Same man, different personality. That was something of a clue." Kirk looks his First Officer full in the face. "We've seen that before, haven't we, Spock?"

The Vulcan nods slowly. Kirk continues, "But really it was that name -- Paul Rawlson. I said it would come to me and it did. Standing there in the warehouse, I remembered." He wonders now if the mental block was a deliberate construct; a protective impulse from his subconscious. He takes a deep breath.

"Commander Rawlson messaged me. The first time not long after... after we left Alpha 177. Then again about a year ago. He was asking questions. Asking for my logs -- the personal logs, not the official record. If you remember we kept that rather... bland."

Spock nods again. It wasn't as if they'd lied. The facts were all there in black and white. But neither officer had felt it appropriate to tell the full story. For which Kirk is immeasurably grateful.

And now he knows why that name in the briefing room had had such an impact. It wasn't just the distant stirring of unwelcome memories. It was the accompanying cold lurch in his gut -- of something left undone, something crucial missed.  
  
He'd sent a polite refusal to Rawlson's requests couched in the language of Starfleet security protocols. But he hadn't asked why. Why a Commander, then based at science lab half a quadrant away if memory served, would be asking those particular questions about that particular planetfall. He'd been all too keen to move onto the next request in his comms queue; he'd allowed his emotions, still raw and smarting on the subject of buried alter egos, to cloud his judgment.

He continues grimly, "So, somehow, for whatever reason, Rawlson has managed to import some of that ore from Alpha 177. That's what your tricorder is picking up, right?"

"Correct, Captain. The readings are strongest in the warehouse. But the trace residue is everywhere. We are standing in it now." Spock looks meaningfully at their boots, now caked in mud. "Jake is covered in it." He pauses as if wondering whether to go further, to spell out the implications.

But he doesn't need to. Kirk understands and for a moment he is back on the _Enterprise_ of some four years ago. Two memories. Disorientation on a transporter platform and a craving for brandy. With a shudder he brings himself forcibly back to the present.

"So what you're saying, Spock, is that Jake can't beam anywhere. And, until we get decontaminated, and work out exactly what's going on, neither can we."

  
-oOo-

  
In the end it is Giotto who leads the way. His team have phasers drawn and move the group quickly away from the pools of light, hugging the shadowed walls and stopping every few minutes to listen intently. Spock is next, scanning constantly for signs of life ahead and never far from his Captain's side. Jake, despite his protests, is invisibly handcuffed to one of the medics and safely at the rear.

Kirk wonders if the sloping tunnel was originally an attempt to mine the minerals that first brought Deneb III to Starfleet's attention. Certainly the carved rock reminds him of the mine on Janus VI, although he suspects the creatures they're about to find will be a lot more hostile than mother Horta.

Unlike Alpha 177, Janus VI is a good memory. Discovery and preservation, symbiosis and teamwork. That was the mission where his suspicion that Spock's logic was tempered by a certain...partiality began to crystallise. A partiality exposed by the note of panic in "Kill it, Captain, quickly" and confirmed a few seconds later by "Jim, your life is in danger."

But no. The evidence had been there before that. The virus on Psi 2000, "Jim when I feel friendship for you...", a phrase he'd hardly heard as his ship spiralled to destruction, but a scene that replayed in his head more often than was probably healthy in the days following the crisis. Then, after that disastrous transport from Alpha 177. The imposter. He's still convinced that would have been the end of his career if it weren't for the unwavering support he'd had from his First.

The truth is James Kirk can no longer remember the moment when he realised the jolting sparks of unease that characterised his initial dealings with his Vulcan science officer had evolved into the low hum of uncomplicated friendship. And by the time they got to Janus he had long come to terms with the fact that unfamiliar inner glow that now lit him from within, originated not, as he had up to that point assumed, from the command of starship -- not from a lifetime's goal achieved -- but rather from forming half of a command partnership which has somehow evolved to become the most important relationship of his life. And whose lifespan, thanks both to the relentless march of Newtonian time and to Starfleet mission parameters, can now be measured in months. Kirk looks sideways at his friend staring intently at his tricorder and wonders if he too is developing a fixation with passing stardates. It is not a subject either of them has so far felt able to discuss.

Giotto and Spock have stopped at the same moment. With a few coded hand gestures the security chief deploys his team along both sides of the tunnel to maintain line of sight. Spock lifts his tricorder so Kirk too can see the display. Up ahead the tunnel splits, each branch leading to a separate chamber. In a smaller square area three life signs cluster in a single location. Another larger chamber four hundred metres in the opposite direction houses at least two dozen points of energy, so close together it is hard to distinguish the exact number.

Kirk beckons McCoy and Giotto to his side and points to the readings.

He keeps his voice low. "I think we may have found our missing colonists."

McCoy lifts his own medical tricorder and narrows the scan field. He's frowning.

"Some of those readings are awful faint, Jim. I'd say we've found casualties. We may not have much time."

Kirk nods and thinks for a minute.

"Giotto, I want you to take three of your men, go with McCoy and the rest of the medical team and investigate the larger chamber.

Spock. Kingley. Yamamoto. You're here with me. Giotto, we'll await your signal. If we're right and those are the colonists we'll create a diversion. That should give you the chance to get them out of there. Don't wait for us. Get them up to the surface and contact Scotty. But no-one is to beam up -- you understand me? We're going to have to do this the hard way -- by shuttle." Giotto, already briefed in bare outline about the contamination theory, nods.

McCoy too has been briefed but looks far from happy.

"Jim, don't you think we should stick together?"

Kirk can see Jake scowling, a coiled bundle of energy bouncing behind one of the medics.

"No, Bones, I don't. Our first priority is the safety of those civilians. Our second is to find out what's been going on down here and to track down the colony team. The first may depend on the second. We have to get to the officer at the centre of this. I've got to find Rawlson."

Later he thinks it was that thought which left them vulnerable. His obsession with finding one man threw the bigger picture into shadow. Because he should have known. Of course, he should.

He should have known no Starfleet team, however dysfunctional, forgets to guard their perimeter. He should have foreseen that a science team, even one deployed to a neutral planet, would have enough knowledge between them to erect a forcefield designed to reflect any weapon deployed against it.

When the signal comes, a green light from Giotto that shows his instincts about the location of the colonists were right, they are almost at the door of the smaller chamber. 

They're almost at the door when Kirk gives Kingley the nod.

They are almost at the door... which means they have no protection when the kick back from the stun grenade hits.

He has a split second to see Spock react, to see his friend launch himself towards him and then he's flying backwards. He braces himself for the impact against the tunnel wall but he's unconscious before he hits and the world goes black.

 

  


[Chapter ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1119572/chapters/2255691)5

 

The first image Spock sees upon regaining consciousness is his Captain. Smiling. The Captain appears to have diminished in size. And to be missing his lower limbs.

Vision problems are a symptom of concussion. It is probable that the nonsensical image is the result of his exposure to the pressure wave. Spock closes his eyes and gives a stern instruction to his disordered thought patterns. When he reopens his eyelids it is apparent that he is in fact looking at a holographic image of his commanding officer. The picture is affixed to a wall alongside a computer. He is in an office then. He is lying on a floor which is unclean. His phaser and communicator are gone. And he is not alone.

A pair of Starfleet boots obstructs his field of vision to the right. The boots belong to the Captain although Spock would resist any attempt by McCoy or anyone else to determine exactly how or why he knows this. The Captain is in possession of both his lower limbs.

Vulcans do not breathe sighs of relief. However, they can allow themselves some logical satisfaction that the commanding officer of the fleet's flagship remains apparently intact although apparently unconscious. From his current viewpoint it is impossible to discern whether Kirk has sustained any more serious injuries.

It is only when he attempts to regain a vertical position that he realises he is restrained. The crude but effective fastening encircles his wrists and is attached to vertical pipework that extends from floor to ceiling. The pipe appears to be welded titanium. Spock can produce a formula for the force that would be required to break a titanium weld in less than point eight of a second. The necessary force far exceeds the muscular strength of a single Vulcan male. Which is why he is not proud of himself for testing the laws of physics for rather more than two minutes.

The noise his fastenings make against the pipework does have the effect of bringing Kirk round with a groan. He squints up at the ceiling.

"Mr. Spock. Might I suggest that your attempts to break that pipe are likely to prove counter-productive--"

"Captain. Are you injured?"

Ignoring his First Officer's question, Kirk swings his feet round to give himself enough purchase to lever himself up against the wall. He too is restrained and in a similar fashion although he appears to be attached to a horizontal duct at floor level. He continues

"...because, if I'm not mistaken, that particular pipe is likely to contain either coolant or waste water, neither of which would be a welcome addition to our current environment."

"I can assure you, Captain. There is no danger of the pipe--"

"--breaking. Yes, I know. It looks like titanium to me. Which begs the question--"

"--you have not answered my question, Captain. Have you suffered any injury as a result of recent events?"

"I have a headache the size of Andromeda, if you must know. And my foot's gone to sleep." He stamps his boots, and winces. "Ouch. Make that both feet. What about you, Mr. Spock? Any side-effects? Other than delusions of super-Vulcan strength?"

"I am quite well, thank you, sir. And while the pipe would appear to be constructed of titanium, I think it likely my restraints are not. Therefore I...."

"--yet those handcuffs are attached to Vulcan skin over Vulcan bone. I remember Newton's third law quite well, thank you science officer, and I would prefer your wrists remain undamaged. We may need them. Now will you kindly stop rattling your chains like a ghoul and let me listen for a minute?"

Spock obliges. Subduing the treacherous wave of warmth that rises at this indication of the Captain's concern for his physical wellbeing, he directs his own senses to the surrounding environment. And hears only a distant clanking and the low hum of a generator working too hard. Kirk, aware of the superiority of Vulcan hearing, tilts his head.

"So what do you think? It's awfully quiet. Did Giotto and McCoy get the colonists out?"

Spock considers. "I am unsure how much time has elapsed during our period of unconsciousness. It is possible that they did indeed succeed and we are alone because the personnel who are responsible for our current situation are now engaged in pursuit."

"So where are Kingley and Yamamoto? Where's Rawlson? And what…" Kirk stops and stares, incredulity creeping into his tone. "... What the hell is my picture doing on that wall?"

Spock knows the Captain is frustrated, and that Kirk does not expect him to produce accurate answers to these questions. Since he is unable to provide a useful reply he falls back on a tactic he has found effective in the past.

"It would appear, Captain, you have a fan. Although I cannot understand why anyone would choose to clutter their place of work with such distracting ephemera."

Spock is rewarded with a twitch of the lips that tells him he has been successful, at least partially, in relieving the current tension.

"So you're saying that you'd find being exposed to my picture distracting, Mr. Spock. I must admit I'm flattered."

"I made no such assertion, Captain. I was merely making an observation. And I would further submit that the usual occupant of this office is displaying an illogical compulsion to decorate his or her workspace with trivia and is therefore more than likely to be human."

"More than likely? That's unusually imprecise for you, Spock. Are you sure that stun grenade hasn't had more of an impact than you're admitting?"

"I had refrained from giving you the exact odds, sir, however since you request them--"

"--No, please don't. Headache. Andromeda. Remember?"

Kirk sighs and shifts position, sliding sideways along a small portion of the ducting before a supporting bracket halts his progress. They are now sitting almost alongside each other which allows Spock to see, beneath the dust, the mottled bruising on Kirk's cheek.

Yet it is the unseen hurt which concerns the Vulcan. Alpha 177 was four years ago; the logs were completed and closed. By mutual unspoken consent neither of them has discussed those events in the intervening period. Yet, looking at his Captain now, his eyes dark in contemplation, Spock suspects that the confrontation with his negative alter ego is never far from his friend's thoughts.

Jim Kirk is fearless. At least that's his reputation and it's been earned. But Spock knows the Captain fears two things: losing his command and losing his crew. The duplication, threw both those into sharp relief. And now, here on Deneb III, they are hearing the echoes of a nightmare. Instinct tells him it is time to break the silence. He draws a breath.

"Jim. There is something I have wanted to ask you--"

But he gets no further. He feels it as a vibration before acute Vulcan hearing translates the movement into sound. He turns his head towards the door.

"Spock?" But then Kirk hears them too. Three sets of footsteps drawing nearer. He draws his spine straighter against the wall.

If the _Enterprise_ 's First Officer had an imagination, which of course, being Vulcan, he does not, he could imagine that at times like this his Captain develops his own forcefield; a glow and a glower that are not detectable by tricorder but are nevertheless undoubtedly present when dealing with a threat to his ship, his crew or his command.

The man who appears in the doorway does not at first sight appear to represent any of those things. Dishevelled and distracted, he is short and slightly overweight, wearing a grubby lab coat over Starfleet science blue and carrying a padd. He is flanked by two men in Starfleet uniform. Red shirts, Spock notes. Unlike the man they accompany these officers exude a palpable air of menace.

"Ah, awake. Yes, yes. At last. Excuse me, gentlemen just one minute."

Fussing with something on his padd the new arrival crosses the office to the computer where he taps the screen and frowns at something. Kirk's eyes follow him then flick back to the door. The two henchmen -- Spock is not sure why his brain has supplied that label but he is quite certain it fits -- are standing guard. With folded arms and sneers that match each other but not the uniform they wear. Tutting at what he sees on the screen, the lab coat connects the padd to a dock, then turns and clasps his hands to his chest.

"Well, now. So here we are. Captain Kirk. At long last. And Commander Spock, isn't it? So pleased to finally make your acquaintance."

Kirk may be attached to a length of ducting, recovering from a sustained period of unconsciousness, missing several crew members, and suffering from a galaxy sized headache but his reply perfectly matches the boardroom meeting tone set by their new acquaintance.

"I'm sorry, you have us at a disadvantage, as you see." He might be apologising for an administrative oversight. "I don't believe we've met."

The small eyes narrow, squinting down at the pair on the floor as if they have forgotten both their agenda and their briefing papers.

"Why, no. I suppose we haven't. Although I would have thought you might... Well, no matter, no matter. The name's Rawlson, Paul Rawlson. Forgive me for not shaking hands. But I see there you really are at a disadvantage." He gives a high pitched laugh that makes Spock grateful for his inbuilt resistance to irritation. He can detect from the muscles working in his Kirk's jaw that his Captain is less immune to the laugh's effects. Kirk clenches his teeth for a moment but manages to continue in the same vein.

"Commander Rawlson," The stress on the rank is deliberate. "I confess I am surprised to see you. Conditions here had led us to suspect something untoward had happened to you. Starfleet sent us to inspect--"

"--yes, and isn't that ironic?" There is a glitter Rawlson's eyes that Spock decides he does not like. "They send Captain Kirk to inspect us."

He pivots round, arm flung wide in a grand gesture that takes in the office of broken equipment and scattered papers. "So what do you think, Kirk? Do we pass muster? Will we be getting a gold star from the fleet's flagship?" This time the laugh is a broken thing that crawls scratching down Spock's spine. And he knows. There are only two possible explanations for this behaviour from the man selected by Starfleet to lead a colony on a hostile world. Neither of them is palatable.

Kirk has reached the same conclusion. Spock can read the thought as clearly as if the Captain were shouting it across the room. But Kirk does not shout. He smiles. A smile to humour a madman. And for a brief moment of irrelevancy Spock wonders how long it is since he saw his Captain's face lit by a genuine smile. For once his eidetic memory fails him.

"Listen, Rawlson. We've obviously caught you at a bad time. I'm sure this is all a misunderstanding. We're here to help. If we can just contact Starfleet--"

"-- contact Starfleet?” There is outrage in the rising tone and in the flush that rises to plump cheeks. "Well, good luck with that, Kirk. Do you know how many times I've contacted Command in recent months and been fobbed off with some pathetic excuse?" His voice changes in mimicry of some faceless bureaucrat. ‘I’m sorry, Commander your supplies shipment has been diverted. Apologies, Commander. If you can just hold on a few more weeks.' Starfleet has abandoned us, Kirk. I learned that lesson months ago."

"Abandoned...?" Kirk frowns. "That makes no sense, Commander. Our very presence here now proves--"

"--proves nothing," sneers Rawlson. "You said it. You're here to inspect us -- to tick some bureaucratic boxes. Not to provide supplies. Not to help. But then I should have realised." Suddenly he's down in a crouch, face to face with Kirk who returns his gaze calmly despite the spittle in the corners of the man's mouth. "I used to worship you, you know, Kirk. Golden boy of the service. The man who defeats the odds. I even put up your picture. Did you see it? I've kept it. A souvenir of my naivety. Of a time before I realised the truth. About you. About Starfleet."

"The truth, Commander?" Kirk's tone hardens. "The truth is you had a responsibility here. Men and women who depended on you. Now fourteen of them are dead."

Rawlson recoils. Kirk pulls himself a little straighter against the wall. "Yes, we've seen them -- stacked like so much firewood in an empty warehouse. What the hell were you thinking, Rawlson? What sort of sick experiment have you been conducting here?"

For a moment Spock thinks the man in the lab coat is about to strike the Captain. But before he can move there's a whistle from his communicator. Breathing heavily Rawlson backs away pulling the device from his belt and flipping it open.

"Rawlson here."

The voice is splintered by static. "It's Miller. Commander, you'd better get up here."

"On my way." Rawlson crosses back to the computer and disconnects the padd. He seems about to say something but instead crosses to the two guards at the door and nods towards the men on the floor.

"Watch them." Then, staring at the padd screen, he heads out of the door.

Spock keeps his voice low. "Captain, I am not sure that was a wise tactic. The commander would appear to be subject to unpredictable behaviour patterns."

Kirk is thoughtful. "I needed to push him, Spock. To see how far he'd go. So what do you think? Has the man simply gone mad? Or is this Rawlson's duplicate? An imposter?"

"Without a psych profile of the Commander before his current assignment we lack data for a full analysis. However, I fear the latter." Spock glances towards the men standing guard and tilts his head towards his shoulder, away from their gaze. "And I think we can safely surmise that our current companions are similarly compromised."

Kirk looks over his shoulder. "I think your logic is sound, Mr. Spock. The question is, can we turn that to our advantage?"

 

[Chapter ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1119572/chapters/2255691)6

  
Leonard McCoy has lost count of the times he's come under fire since he began service with the _Enterprise_. It's certainly been a frequent enough occurrence for him to re-write Starfleet's mandatory training regime for the CMO of a starship to include modules in weaponry and hand to hand combat.

He suspects no amount of training will ever make him feel comfortable with a phaser in his hand. And, while he would never admit this to either of them, his discomfort is increased by the absence of Jim Kirk or a certain Vulcan officer fighting by his side. While it is usually their fault he finds himself on the front line, it is also usual for him to be able to rely on them to rescue the situation. His own long-established role is to point out the obvious flaws in the plan and treat the inevitable casualties. As another bolt of phaser fire explodes to his right leaving his ears ringing, he grits his teeth and squints round the corner of an empty packing crate to return fire. Goddammit. This is not how it's supposed to pan out. He's a doctor not a commando.

There's a groan from the anti-grav gurney beside him. The woman is in a bad way, one of three colonists from the _Demeter_ they had to stabilise before they could move them from the holding cell. His tricorder readings confirm the bad news. Time isn't on their side. He calibrates the hypo-spray to administer as much sedative as he dares. Where the hell are the shuttles? And where's Giotto?

As if in answer to a prayer the security chief materialises silently by his side, phaser in hand.

"How are you doing, sir?" He's not looking at McCoy. His eyes are scanning the shadows at the back of the warehouse.

"Well, Commander, I'm just fine and dandy. But this woman is dying and I've got two more over there who'll follow her if we don't get out of here pronto. Where are those shuttles Scotty promised?"

Giotto steps carefully round the patient on the gurney at their feet. "On their way. There's a storm on the northern continent spreading south and they've had to divert around it. We just need to hold tight. Excuse me--"

In one fluid motion the security chief pushes him to the ground as a flash of light explodes over their heads then crouches over him to return fire. A figure topples from the warehouse gantry and lies motionless.

On the Captain's orders they're still using a heavy stun setting; orders given in the context of Kirkish optimism that the effects of the ore from Alpha 177 can be reversed. Privately McCoy thinks the chances of remerging the former Starfleet officers are becoming increasingly remote. For a start they have no idea what's happened to those officers' positive alter egos. Judging by the first Miller's report, they are presumably confined somewhere on the base.

Giotto flips open his communicator, "Giotto to Captain Kirk. Come in Captain." It's obvious he's not expecting a reply and those expectations are met. There has been no word from either Kirk or his First Officer since the moment the explosion down the tunnel did what it was intended to do and sent the guards running, leaving only a forcefield between the _Enterprise_ team and the terrified colonists from the _Demeter_.

That something has happened to the best command team in the fleet is obvious. That Giotto would follow his Captain's orders and lead a flawless rescue operation to the surface without waiting for his commanding officer was also obvious and McCoy knows from long exposure to the steely professionalism of the _Enterprise_ 's chief of security it is pointless to protest. Besides he's a doctor leading a team of junior medics who have only the most basic training in self-defence and his priority has to be their safety and the evacuation of the casualties. But that doesn't stop him worrying and disguising that worry under a cloak of acerbity.

"There comes a point when perseverance becomes just plain old stubbornness, Commander. If there was a way of contacting us, don't you think Jim Kirk would have found it by now?"

Unless he can't, he adds silently. Unless he's unconscious. Or worse. His mind rebels. No. He's got Spock with him. At least they're together. And god help the man who tries to harm a hair of Jim's head as long as that Vulcan is by his side.

Giotto's face is grim as he changes the frequency on his communicator. "Ramirez, report."

"Perimeter's secure, sir. The...uh...enemy's retreating."

Enemy? thinks McCoy. It jars. But what the hell else are you supposed to call figures in Starfleet uniform when they appear determined to use you for target practice?

Ramirez continues. “And the shuttles, sir. I can hear them. They're on their way."

"Acknowledged. Giotto out." And now McCoy too can hear the roar of the shuttle engines, can see the puddles outside the warehouse doors ripple in vibration.

The chief turns to the CMO, all calm efficiency, his voice raised against the noise outside. "Right, Doctor. Triage. Let's get the most severely wounded out there first. We'll need one medic to each shuttle load. It's at least a 15 minute trip to orbital rendezvous, could be longer if that storm hits."

McCoy nods but before he has time to relay his orders to the team one of the juniors is up by his side, an injured colonist in blood-stained coveralls draped over one shoulder.

"Doctor McCoy. I can't find him."

"Can find who, ensign?" McCoy is distracted. He's weighing the damage it's likely to cause to remove his critical patients from their gurneys and place them in sitting positions versus the space factor. _Enterprise_ shuttles aren't medivacs. Every horizontal patient transported will displace another who can ill afford to wait for the next transport. If only they could use the cargo space. Will Scotty have thought of that?

The medic tugs his sleeve.

"Doctor. I'm sorry. He's gone, sir. I was treating this guy. Leg wounds. And when I turned round he'd... well, he just vanished, sir."

"Wait a minute. Who are you talking about?" But then he knows. Puts two and two together. A tousled head and a field dressing he hasn't seen since -- "Jake? Jake's gone?"

"Yes, sir. I think he's looking for his mother."

"Goddammit, Rufus. You were supposed to --"

But he knows that's unfair. He should have guessed Jake wouldn't hang around once he realised his mom wasn't among the colonists in the holding cells. It's no excuse that his thoughts were with a missing figure in command gold and an unworkable ratio of patient to doctor relationships.

He sighs. "Never mind. We haven't got time to go looking for him." He runs his tricorder over the figure draped over the ensign's shoulder. "Get your patient out to the shuttles. We'll need to keep an eye on his fluids. He's going into shock."

He watches the retreating figures limp towards the door and frowns. We haven't got time to go looking for you either, Jim. You and Spock, you're on your own.

 

  



	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you LongLiveHumour. And all who have reviewed.

[Chapter ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1119572/chapters/2255691)7

 

He doesn't believe in a no-win scenario. But lying here on the floor with a mouthful of blood, a ringing in his ears and... yes, that's a loosened molar, the same one as last time so Bones will NOT be happy...he has to admit that so far he hasn't quite figured out how he's going to do the snatching victory thing. The jaws of defeat are close enough he can smell the halitosis.

He'd gone for the conversational yet direct approach.

_"So how much longer have you got?" That to the closest glowering red shirt. Which earns him a deeper glower and a curling upper lip._

 

_"Keep your mouth shut, Kirk."_

 

_"I only ask because of the sweating." Keep it light, keep it credible. "That's the first sign. Your body struggles to maintain temperature. I think it's something to do with the hypothalamus...the duplication activates the stress response. It gets overloaded. Is that right, Spock? You saw the medical records."_

 

_Spock frowns. "It is rather more complicated than that, Captain. The entire endocrine system is compromised."_

 

_"Yes, yes of course. Which is how McCoy-- " this to the men at the door "that's our ship's doctor -- that's how McCoy spotted the deterioration."_

 

_"Deterioration?"_

 

_The nearest red shirt takes a step closer. Kirk senses his First Officer stiffen. He takes deep breath._

 

_"You do know you're dying, right?"_

_At that the second man at the door turns his head._

 

_"He told you to shut that mouth."_

 

_Kirk continues as if he hasn't heard. "Rawlson must have told you -- about the degeneration at a cellular level. And we've seen the bodies -- the ones in the warehouse. But it's not too late, not for you."_

 

_For a moment he thinks his words have hit home. The man nearest him meets his gaze and, for just an instant, he thinks he sees it, the glimmer of the Starfleet officer beneath, a man who'd signed up to defend and protect._

 

_"What do you know about it?" Spoken with a sneer. And yet, Kirk realises, it is actually a question._

_"What do I know?" He stops. It's not what he knows. It's what he remembers. Even now the duplicate's memories burrow like ticks beneath his skin. The joy of amorality. Of power without consequences. And the heat. The burn of adrenalin. "I know enough. I know you may have hours not days."_

 

_A flash of fear through the sheen of sweat. Knuckles whitening on fists that tremble. Through clenched teeth._

 

_"Shut. Up."_

 

_Gently now. "What's your name, son?"_

 

_Too far. Too close. Logic and compassion have no place in this mirror universe of refracted light and reversed values. The snarl turns to a growl. The force of the first back-handed blow sends his head crashing backwards; the second sends him spinning onto his side._

Which is where he lies now, mouth full of iron and head full of stars, and painfully aware that with his hands restrained he is in a poor position to defend himself from the kicks to the ribs and abdomen he's sure are about to follow. The best he can do is curl himself inwards and brace for impact.

Another growl but the kicks don't come. He realises he has closed his eyes and when he opens them his field of vision is empty. Wait a minute that growl sounded like --

"Spock!"

Somehow his First Officer has managed to swing his legs round with enough force to knock the guard off his feet. He now has him a scissor hold on the floor but, with his arms behind him, he's in no position to follow up and the second guard has pulled his phaser.

Kirk struggles to right himself. "Spock, let him go." The man on the floor is turning slowly purple thanks to a Vulcan knee against his Adam's apple. The other guard stands over them, swinging his phaser and trying to get a clear shot. "Let him go, Spock that's an order."

A shadow falls across the struggling bodies.

"Yes, Commander. I suggest you follow your Captain's orders. Let him go. Now."

The voice from the doorway is quiet with the icy edge of authority. All movement on the floor freezes. Kirk blinks, convinced that last blow has done something odd to his eyesight.

"Rawlson?"

It's the same man. Kirk can see that now. But without his lab coat, in science blue, he stands somehow taller, with an air of quiet confidence. This man has a stillness, a focus that is...unfamiliar. The cool gaze tilts to observe the men on the floor.

"Gentlemen. That is a most undignified position. On your feet, Barker."

Coughing and red-faced the guard scrambles up and pulls at his shirt.

"Damn Vulcan nearly killed me. And that one..." he points at Kirk, "He was causing trouble... he said we... that we were--"

"That you were dying," finishes the stranger wearing Rawlson's face. "Yes, I thought he might try something like that. And did you believe him, Barker?"

The man blusters. "No, of course not. But then he talked about the... well, the ones we put in the warehouse. And he said their ship's doctor --"

"--that's enough." The tone is cutting. "I have explained what happened. It was... unfortunate. It won't happen again."

Kirk thinks back to the overheard conversation in the warehouse, to the "next lot" who are "already falling like flies" and opens his mouth to speak. Then he catches the eye of his First Officer and closes it again.

"Now, you're needed on the surface. Both of you. Report to Lieutenant Miller. He's pulled back to W-6."

"But what about these two?"

"I'll take care of them. Leave me your phaser. You can pull another from the armoury."

Barker seems about to argue. He contents himself with a sudden lurch at Kirk as if he's about to deliver the missing kicks and laughs harshly when his intended target winces in defensive reflex.

"Now, Barker." Rawlson is holding out his hand in bored expectation and with reluctance the man slams the weapon down into his palm.

Kirk raises the back of his hand to the trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth and watches the two guards head out of the door.

"Rawlson...?"

A finger to the lips, the other hand up in warning. After a few seconds Rawlson re-opens the door and peers out into an apparently empty tunnel. When he ducks back inside he's smiling.

"They've gone." He crosses to the desk, produces keys from a drawer and sets to work behind Kirk's back. "We haven't much time."

Kirk looks across Rawlson's shoulder at his First Officer who is raising eloquent eyebrows.

"Let me get this straight. You're Commander Rawlson. What happened to--?"

"My imposter?" He straightens and sees Kirk's reaction. "That's what you called your duplicate, isn't it, Kirk? Although, interestingly, records don't reveal what he called you."

Kirk finding his wrists free, stretches his cramped arms.

"Well, Commander. You've read the _Enterprise_ logs. That much is obvious. What's far from obvious is why, having read them, you would venture anywhere near that ore from Alpha 177. You saw what the contamination did to our pattern buffers. How it produced duplicates. You knew what would happen."

Rawlson's jaw tenses, his lips thin.

"I appreciate you have a lot of questions, Kirk. But they'll have to wait." He sets to work on Spock's restraints. "Suffice it to say that I had my reasons. Good ones. And yes, I did my research. Years of it." He looks up. "Although you were precious little help." It's said with an attempt at lightness that falls flat. There's bitterness there he can't quite disguise.

Kirk stands, ignoring the protests from bruises and muscles too long confined.

"So that's what this is?" He gestures up and around. "A research project gone wrong."

Rawlson gives a short laugh.

"That's one way of putting it. I can explain everything. But not here, not now. We need to get going."

Spock rises to his feet, the handcuffs falling to the floor with a clang.

"Captain. Our communicators."

Rawlson moves impatiently to the door. "They're not here. We have to get across to the control room. Fortunately Miller's team are...otherwise occupied. We shouldn't have any difficulty."

But Spock ignores him. He has moved to the desk; his attention is fixed on the computer screen and a display that flickers and changes.

"These numbers, Commander. The names. Am I correct in assuming--?"

"I told you, Mr. Spock. I'll explain everything -- later. It's not safe."

Phaser clasped across his chest the Commander opens the door and steps out into the corridor, gesturing for them to follow. Kirk hesitates. But there's no point in staying where they are. He nods at Spock who reluctantly abandons his examination of the screen. Together they step into the dimly lit passageway.

 


	3. Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is part three but chapter eight -- in case you're finding it confusing.

 

[Chapter ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1119572/chapters/2255691)8

 

Montgomery Scott stares at the padd that's just been handed to him.

"How accurate are these results?"

"To three decimal places, sir. As requested."

He scans down screens of data and then grabs his own padd and calls up the file he needs. It takes a while to refresh on his screen and, when he glances up, he realises he is standing in the middle of an intent circle composed of half his engineering staff and three lab assistants from bio-sciences, including the ensign who has just delivered the results from the post-mortem.

"Do you lot no have work to do?"

As if repelled by static charge the group scatter with a mixture of mumbled apologies and insouciant "I was just on my way to--" body language.

"Not you, Philippe. Come here. Take a look at this."

His deputy stands over his shoulder, frowning at the screen.

"What am I looking at?"

"This is the spectral analysis of the dust from the warehouse. Look what happens when we superimpose the results over the same data from the Alpha 177 samples." The screens merge in a ballet of mirror geometry. "It's just as Mr. Spock said. Same mineral composition. Minor variations in concentration of the active elements." He swipes downwards. The lieutenant's finger traces the new graphs.

"And what about these? I can see the spiking."

"Those are the nuclear magnetic spectroscopy results from the Alpha 177. They came later."

There had been no time then. Not with an imposter on the loose, a landing party facing an icy death and the Captain... well, not himself. The _Enterprise_ 's loyal chief engineer pushes that memory aside with an inward shudder. But later, in the quiet of the night, in the narrow spaces between dilithium crystal meltdown and yet another impossible demand from the bridge, he had kept returning to those samples, to the diagnostics from the transporter systems. It had become something of an obsession. For his transporters to go so catastrophically wrong… it nagged at him like toothache. Even though, he'd told himself, the chances of something like that happening again were infinitesimally small. And now he's staring at proof that the universe has once again cheerfully ignored the odds.

There's admiration in Philippe's voice as the truth dawns. "So you isolated the dynamic isotope. The rest is just so much dust."

"Two isotopes," Scott corrects. "It's the reaction between them that produced the dynamic. And I thought I'd figured out what happened in the pattern buffers. But then this..."

He highlights the results from the bio-lab's post mortem on the second padd and brings them up side by side with the data from four years ago. "These results are from the doctor's own logs -- the Captain's, no -- the imposter's scan results. You can see the similarities, what's happening at a cellular level. But what bothers me are the differences."

"No, that can't be right." The lieutenant focuses on the screen as if it's written in ancient Greek. "Look at the DNA degradation in the latest sample. It doesn't make sense. The estimated date of death is only four days ago."

Scott's assessment of his new deputy climbs another notch. He'd taken a chance on Philippe Caron. Played a hunch that the man's chequered history, swerving from bio-medical research to engineering via a brief foray in astrometrics was evidence of an intellectual all-rounder rather than an inability to focus. Applying a multi-disciplinary approach to engineering conundrums had already proved successful on a number of occasions. He's hoping this is shaping up to be another one.

"This is the third time I've sent them back to the lab. Same results every time." He scrolls back to a previous screen, barely registering the swish of doors opening. "I wish McCoy were here. He'd--"

"Be careful what you wish for, Commander." The silhouette at the door is outlined in exhaustion, leaning on one hand as if the owner lacks the energy to step over the threshold. But there's no mistaking the fury in the voice that vibrates across engineering. "What the hell, Scotty. They won't re-launch the shuttles - they say they're awaiting your orders."

"Doctor McCoy. We were just--"

But the figure at the door isn't in a listening frame of mind.

"Goddammit, man. I've still got casualties on the surface. And Jim and Spock are down there somewhere. Giotto says their communicators are offline. What are you playing at?"

Scott tries again. "Doctor, come in an' sit down before you fall down."

"But the shuttles--"

"I dunna think we'll be needing the shuttles. If I'm right, we can have all those casualties up here in just a jiffy. But I need you to look at this."

With reluctance the doctor detaches himself from the door frame and hauls himself over to the proffered chair. He casts a blank gaze over the screens presented to him.

"Dammit Scotty, I'm a doctor not a mathematician. Give me some data I can get a handle on."

The chief engineer leans forward to highlight the screen of medical input but he's too slow.

"Wait..." McCoy grabs the padd and holds it with both hands. "Are those the post-mortem results?"

"Yes, it's as you thought. Cellular degradation. And that dust was everywhere. But—”

"The DNA. This can't be right."

With a distinct sense of deja vu the engineer suppresses a sigh.

"We've checked and checked again... There's no mistake."

There's real horror in the doctor's face as he raises his head from the screen.

"My god, of course. I should have realised. The duplicates - once they took over..." He does a rapid calculation in his head. "And this has been going on weeks. Perhaps longer. Scotty, we've got to find Jim and Spock. We've got to get them out there. And fast."


	4. Part Four

[Chapter ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1119572/chapters/2255691)9

 

After a few minutes it's obvious they're not heading for the surface. Rawlson produces a small hand torch and leads them off the main passageway, through an access hatch and into a much narrower tunnel.

Kirk takes him by the elbow. "Where are you taking us, Commander? And where are my men?"

"I told you. We need to get to control. We're blind down here." Rawlson shakes off Kirk's grip and resumes walking, speaking over his shoulder. "The control room has monitoring equipment and secure communications. We can send a coded signal to the _Enterprise_." He points ahead into the darkness. "This takes us under the warehouses. And I don't know what he did with your men. I suspect they'll be with the others."

"Others?" And then Kirk realises. "You mean the rest of your team. The positives. They're confined somewhere?"

Rawlson nods but says nothing more. They've come to a junction and he motions for them to stop while he goes on ahead.

The flicker of an overhead strip light reveals the clutter of smashed mining equipment. Haul trucks lie abandoned. A laser drill hangs suspended from rough-hewn rock.

"Captain." Spock gestures to a scar on the rock face. "Phaser fire. There has been an altercation here."

Kirk thinks back to the original transmission from a terrified Lieutenant crouching beside a destroyed console. "I'd say this whole colony has been one big altercation, Mr. Spock. It's anarchy."

Spock is thoughtful. "Indeed. Although there is evidence that until recently there was an underlying order here. A strategy that is currently unclear to me." He moves closer, his voice low. "Jim, I do not trust--"

He checks himself. Rawlson has returned.

"All clear. But we need to hurry."

He crosses the tunnel and enters another access hatch, beckoning for them to follow.

This passage is even narrower than the last. The man in front moves fast, torchlight flickering on dripping walls, boots sinking into black sludge. The moisture dripping from the ceiling stings on their bare skin. The air is acrid with chemicals.

At last the tunnel climbs and then comes to an abrupt end at a metal door with no apparent fixings or handle. Rawlson produces a key pad and types in a code. With a gritty grind the door swings open flooding the passageway with warm air and dim light.

When they step onto the gantry the first thing Kirk notices is the crackle of electricity and the scent of ozone. The air hums with energy, raising the hairs on his forearms and trailing cobwebs of static across the back of his neck.

They are standing several metres above a darkened room of flashing lights and glowing screens. In one corner an intermittent shower of sparks speaks of a severed power conduit. Equipment has been removed from here with no attention to the niceties of electronic engineering, Kirk judges.

A glass wall separates the room from a dark adjoining chamber which appears to be empty.

Rawlson doesn't hesitate. His footsteps down the metal staircase echo with percussive urgency.

Kirk is about to follow when his First Officer stills him with a gentle grip around his upper arm. He keeps his voice to a low murmur.

"Captain -- those monitors -- I would appreciate an opportunity to observe them more closely."

Kirk nods, understanding immediately. "I'll do my best to provide a diversion, Mr. Spock."

At the foot of the stairs he joins Rawlson who is rummaging in a storage locker built into the wall.

"So, Commander. We appear to be alone and not under immediate threat. I think you owe us an explanation."

Rawlson sits back on his heels, dragging a grey metallic briefcase from the back of the locker.

"I owe you? Well, that's rich, Kirk. I rather think you owe me. Or Starfleet does."

Kirk frowns. "For what? You're not going to tell me you're proud of what's happened here."

"Well, no... I'll grant you recent events have been...unfortunate. But my research is sound. You'll see. You'll all see when I publish my results."

"Unfortunate?" Kirk sucks in a breath.

The images rise unbidden. A sea of bodies in Sickbay. A scream cut off by phaser fire. The Starfleet boots under tarpaulins. He'd never even seen their faces.

Fury rises dark and hot but he can't afford to lose control. He forces himself to take a step back. He's aware that Spock is behind him standing over the nearest console. He has to keep the man's focus. He tries a change in tack.

"You're a scientist, Commander. By background and training. Let's keep to the facts. You told us this was a research project. That something went wrong."

Rawlson rises, bringing the briefcase with him. It is obviously far heavier than its size suggests. He heaves it onto the nearest bench.

"Starfleet was blind. You were blind, Kirk. But I saw it. Long before I transferred to the command track, long before this place, I saw the potential. But I was blocked on every front."

Kirk inwardly curses. The _Enterprise_ logs from Alpha 177 had been security coded to protect them from the casual reader. But he remembers Rawlson's messages. He'd been based at one of the fleet's most renowned research labs. With that level of clearance he would have had no problems accessing the official logs.

"Blocked? I think you may be referring to the quite reasonable restrictions Starfleet places on research that treats people as lab rats, Commander."

"People?" Rawlson rolls his eyes. "You still don't get it, Captain. It was never my intention for my research to involve people."

Kirk is beginning to see where this is going. But his peripheral vision tells him Spock has moved across to another console, to a padd attached to a docking port. He takes a step sideways and rests his fingers on the bench to block Rawlson's line of sight. "So you managed to obtain a sample of the Alpha ore?"

Rawlson smiles. Kirk finds the glint of pride anything but reassuring. "Not just a sample. A supply actually. It wasn't easy. But it was worth it. My initial results were extremely promising." He rests his hand on the briefcase, fingers stroking the smooth metal with an odd unconscious tenderness.

"It was slow. Thanks to the lack of support from my superiors, I had to work in secret. And then came the opportunity to command. I shelved the work. But I kept the samples."

"And then you ended up here. On Deneb III. With a team of Starfleet's finest engineers and scientists. You had the best colony team in the quadrant. Good god, man. What happened?"

Rawlson looks away, his eyes dark. "It's what didn't happen, Captain. You've seen for yourself how hostile this planet is. Yes, I had a good team. The first year we made decent progress. The surveys were correct -- if anything they'd under-estimated the mineral wealth here. We even managed some limited permaculture under cover, but every drop of water required de-ionisation. The yield versus energy ratios were well outside sustainable parameters. And then the supply ships stopped coming."

And with a flash of certainty Kirk understands. A colony starved of supplies. A scientist with a special interest in command. And the _Enterprise_ logs outlining a way out -- a way to duplicate dwindling stocks. He remembers the heaters they had attempted to transport to the freezing landing party on Alpha 177. So it would not have worked on complex machinery, on anything with a circuit board, but with raw materials...

"You used the samples," he says flatly. "You deliberately contaminated your own transporters."

Rawlson's eyes flash. "I modified and quarantined one transporter, Captain. I took every precaution. But I had to operate in secret. I couldn't brief the team. I continued rationing -- god knows where they thought I was getting supplies."

He turns away. "And then the storm hit -- it lasted more than a week and demolished two of our storage units. We had to take shelter here, in the mines. And when it was over... my samples, the dust -- it was everywhere. I didn't realise. I didn't know what had happened until the security team..." His voice cracks and for the first time Kirk finds it in himself to feel a twinge of sympathy. "The tunnels were blocked by debris. They used the transporters to beam to the surface. Then they used them to return."

The man in blue raises his eyes from the bench and the case beneath his hands. "Your logs, Kirk. Your personal logs. If I'd seen them, it might have made a difference. I might have seen the signs. The duplicates didn't reveal themselves immediately. By the time I realised what was happening it was too late."

Kirk thinks back to his assessment of the qualities needed to get promotion within Starfleet security. The discipline. The focus. The ability to thrive in conditions of adversity. And the converse of that. Aggression. Single mindedness. Cruelty.

"So they rounded up their counterparts. And your team. They locked them away. Took control."

"Yes." Rawlson sighs, "Not all them made it. And that's not the worst of it." He pulls the briefcase upright by the handle. "Captain, we've wasted enough time. My duplicate could return at any time. It is time to signal your ship. We need to get out of here."

Kirk finds himself in agreement. The desire to leave this planet of death and duplication, the pull of his starship, is almost irresistible. But by the commander's own account there are men and women here who need help. His own men among them, Kingley and Yamamoto. And something doesn't add up.

"I'm curious, Commander. How did you become a victim of the duplication process? You surely didn't decide to use the transporters given what you knew."

"I told you Captain. By the time I realised what was happening it was too late. I was part of the second transport. By then the whole array was contaminated." His eyes slide away and Kirk has the distinct sense he is not hearing the full story. He keeps his voice neutral.

"And the guards -- they still obey your orders. You're still in command here. Yet you allowed what happened on the _Demeter_." Rawlson swallows and makes to move away but Kirk extends his fingers to grip his upper arm. He won't allow him to drop his gaze. "They tortured those people."

Something indefinable flits across Rawlson's face. "Not me, Captain. I wasn't responsible. My duplicate, remember. It would appear the instinct to obey survives the duplication process. When I had access to the comms I tried to warn the colony ship to stay away -- they wouldn't listen."

Every instinct tells Kirk to doubt what he's hearing. There are too many gaps in this story. And he hasn't forgotten a warm Vulcan grip in a dark tunnel. "Jim, I do not trust--"

But the same instincts are telling him the time for talking is over. He makes a decision. "Right. You said we can reach the _Enterprise_ from here. I need to talk to my chief engineer."

With some eagerness the commander turns toward the consoles. Only to be brought up short by an immovable object in the shape of a Vulcan science officer.

"Commander Spock." He makes a move to circumnavigate the form in front of him but Spock takes another step, blocking his path.

"I would submit you have not yet supplied the Captain with full picture, Commander."

Kirk allows some of his frustration to bleed through. "I've heard enough, Spock. The details can wait. We still need to track down the rest of the team, the confined positives. And the best way to do that is via the _Enterprise_."

Spock's eyes are sombre. "There is more you need to know, Captain."

Kirk looks at the flashing numbers and text on the padd Spock holds with sudden dread. "What have you found, Spock?"

"A record of recent events, Captain. A list of the personnel who have undergone duplication. The commander is to be commended for his scientific approach."

Vulcans don't do sarcasm, Kirk thinks. Yet there is no mistaking the distinct lack of admiration in his science officer's tone.

"The text and numbers on the left show the days since duplication. The numbers on the right are an attempt to extrapolate lifespan. That is correct, Commander, is it not?" A question that is not a question. Rawlson has gone very pale. He stares at the floor.

Spock continues as if he has heard an assent. "And the central column has a particular significance. That column is headed with the letter G. I believe I understand what that G is intended to signify."

Kirk casts his eye down the lengthening list -- a macabre and accelerating countdown. "But that can't be right, Spock. There are far more personnel entries here than appear in the colony records."

The Vulcan raises an eyebrow. "Commander?"

Rawlson seems defeated. Shoulders slumped, he addresses the nearest floor tile.

"I told you hadn't heard the worst of it. Once the duplicates had taken over they accessed the computers in my laboratory. They read my research."

Kirk senses a cold fist clench somewhere below his ribs. Suddenly he knows what Rawlson is about to say, even as his mind refuses to accept the enormity of it; even as any hope of resolving this impossible situation shatters.

With the air of a man who has nothing left to lose, the Commander lifts his chin and braces himself, as if for a blow.

"The G stands for generation. The duplicates, the negatives -- they have continued using the contaminated transporters."

For a moment Kirk finds it difficult to draw breath. "My god. Rawlson. What have you done?"


	5. Part Five

[Chapter ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1119572/chapters/2255691)10

 

Growing up on notoriously insular planet with a human mother and a Vulcan father did not provide many childhood advantages. Rather, given the inevitable intolerance of the culture that was a product of that insularity, the reverse. But one positive consequence of his parentage was that, exposed to a bilingual environment from birth, Spock cannot remember a time when he did not both speak and understand Standard. Which makes his frequent declarations of bafflement at the idiosyncrasies of human idiom closer to an affectation than he is ever likely to admit to either his Captain or the _Enterprise_ 's CMO.

That innate familiarity with both languages means that it is relatively late in his association with humans, possibly some months after the realisation that his new Captain has once again avoided disaster by making apparently random and ill-defined leaps in logic to identify a covert threat, that Spock realises with a jolt there is no exact Vulcan equivalent for the term 'intuition'.

The Vulcan half of him quickly approves of this discovery. Of course there is no need for a word to define a term so steeped in emotion; the "gut instinct" of which humans speak with pride, the "playing a hunch" for which James Kirk is famed, these are in fact simply lazy explanations for what further investigation would reveal to be hastily drawn conclusions based on partially observed empirical evidence. The need to produce a word for this process is merely further proof that human thought lacks discipline.

However, an inner voice, in a tone that his Captain would recognise and his father would not, finds it odd that the Vulcan language, which, after all, does contain terms for both inspiration and instinct, does not admit to the observed reality that a relaxation of the relentless scrutiny of logic can, on occasion, produce... insight.

Is it intuition that now tells him his Captain is in danger? Is it gut instinct that tells him they cannot trust the man who grips his briefcase with white knuckles even as, with his other hand, he reaches for the communication console in apparent eagerness to abandon the colony he has founded?

"Kirk, we must move now. Call your engineer. Arrange a rendezvous."

Something nags. It is an unfamiliar feeling for the owner of an eidetic memory. Relax.

The communication console.

Communicators.

Some 32 minutes previously, in an office of titanium pipework and before a hologram of a smiling Kirk, Rawlson had said of their communicators, "They're not here. We need to get to control."

A query may produce a useful reaction.

"Commander Rawlson." The holder of the briefcase shifts his focus. "A rendezvous would be more easily arranged if we were able retrieve our communicators."

A sideways glance. Just a flicker but it is enough.

"That won't be necessary, Mr. Spock. The signal from this comms equipment can punch through hundreds of feet of rock. We can use a code that won't be recognised by the security team on the surface." He clears his throat, "And anyway I have no idea where my counterpart has taken your equipment."

He is lying.

The full implications of this must be considered. The timing of the challenge may have ramifications beyond--

"What's in the briefcase, Commander?" The Captain has come up behind the man in blue and stands at his shoulder, his tone deceptively light. He might be asking what his companion is planning to eat for supper that night.

Rawlson draws the case tighter towards him. "This? Just a few of my personal belongings - my papers and research notes."

"Would your personal belongings include geological samples?

"Samples? What makes you think--?"

"The weight, commander. You appear to be having a little difficulty lifting your luggage. "

Bluster now. "Well, as a matter of fact I do have a few mineral samples in here. Nothing of any importance. Some souvenirs if you will." He forces a laugh. "Not that I am likely to forget events on Deneb III."

Kirk raises a hand to pinch the bridge of his noise, frowning. That laugh. He looks over the top of his fingers at his First Officer. Spock gives a minute nod and moves away towards the staircase.

Kirk keeps his tone even. "So, your duplicate, where is he now? You seem very sure he is nearby."

Rawlson looks away. "I suspect he is directing operations on the surface. Your team were successful in freeing the colonists from the _Demeter_ , Captain. But they remain in danger. And he is likely to return at any moment."

"In which case we should lay in wait for him. You need your other half, Commander. If you've read the logs you'll remember, there is a way--"

"No!" The denial emerges with more force than Rawlson had apparently intended. He seems to realise Kirk is looking at him oddly and attempts a smile. "No, no. That's not necessary. I have made my decision, Kirk. I can live without the imposter."

He moves towards the controls. "Now, no more delay gentlemen. I can assure you, you do not want to meet the third generation of our security team. I am not convinced they fully understand language, let alone orders."

The Captain nods. But he is not looking at the man who now holds the briefcase clasped to his chest.

Spock bends to open the storage locker. The contents are... predictable.

Two Starfleet issue communicators, partially dismantled, and one stained lab coat.

He produces the latter for his Captain's inspection. There is a glimmer of something that is not surprise. More like weariness, Spock thinks, and wonders once more how he and his Captain have arrived at the same destination at the same time. Kirk squares his shoulders, and says conversationally,

"So Rawlson, don't you think it's time to drop this pretence?"

The holder of the briefcase follows Kirk's line of sight and spins round to face the Vulcan, who stands to face him, holding the evidence of his deception. Spock chooses his words carefully.

"You have no duplicate. You are as you have always been, Commander. A liar and quite probably a murderer."

The gaze darts from one to the other, then hardens. With a world weary sigh Rawlson places the case down flat and reaches for a button on the control panel.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen. This could have been so much easier."

Kirk is a split second too late. By the time he grabs Rawlson, pulling his arms behind him, the light on the console is already blinking in time to an audible warning.

Time seems to freeze. Then several events happen almost simultaneously.

On the opposite side of the room doors hidden in shadows open to reveal the two red shirts Spock recognises from their earlier incarceration. Silhouetted against the light from the corridor, they have phasers drawn.

Kirk pulls Rawlson back and away from the control panel. The man in blue offers no resistance.

Spock ducks behind the staircase into darkness. He is a little more than 1.8 metres from the Captain who is somewhat protected by the man he holds captive in front of him. He is a little less than 5.2 metres from the open doorway. The closest red shirt is unable to hold his phaser steady and his focus is forwards. Spock estimates he can close the gap in approximately 0.85 of second. In that time period the second weapon will have--

But the calculations become irrelevant.

A third figure steps into the gap between the two phasers. He too is holding a weapon. And there is someone else.

Rawlson greets the new arrival with a cheery shout across the banks of equipment.

"Lieutenant Miller. So glad you could join us. Captain Kirk, might I suggest you release me?"

And Kirk loosens his grip, steps slowly back and away.

Because Miller is not pointing his weapon forwards. He is pointing it at a small tousled head which sports a Starfleet issue bandage. The lifted chin and bitten lip demonstrate a determination not to cry.

Kirk's voice is gentle. "Hello, Jake."


	6. Part Six

[Chapter 11](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1119572/chapters/2255691)

 

The last sedative did the trick. The girl is finally sleeping. Chapel leans over to tuck her in close to the wall beside her mother. Falling out of bed is one fear she can remove, even if she can do nothing about the terrors of the day.

There had been no tears, no words as she led mother and daughter down the corridor to the last available bunk on the ship. Chapel suspects they're both in shock. But at least they had escaped physical injury, unlike many of their shipmates from the _Demeter_. Even with the resources of a starship sickbay the _Enterprise_ medical teams had been unable to save the most badly injured.

She stands, closing her eyes, and breathes deep into the arch of a spine too long compressed. After the flashing cacophony of sickbay the quiet is somehow shocking. And she feels odd, as if she's slipped out of sync somehow. When she opens her eyes she realises why. She's never been here before, never actually stepped over the threshold of the Captain's quarters.

Kirk was careful like that. Spock and McCoy were regular visitors but crew, particularly female crew, were never invited into the inner sanctum. She takes another deep breath and inhales the same recycled air as in any other cabin. So it must be her imagination that scents the space with something that is unmistakably the Captain.

She finds herself unable to resist the temptation to inspect her commanding officer's personal space now she's here. Apart from the colourful pile of data cards spread haphazardly on the desk -- paperwork stacking up even while the man who can produce the necessary sign off faces deadly danger on the planet below -- the cabin is pin neat.  
There's scant evidence that a Starfleet legend inhabits this particular space between the bulkheads.

After five years roaming the galaxy most of the longer serving crew have run out of horizontal surfaces for mission souvenirs. But there's no such clutter here. On the wall an old sailing ship is in full flight above the waves, spume spattered prow emblazoned with the legend Enterprize. The only other evidence of the cabin’s inhabitant lies in the alcove above the bed. Books, real volumes of paper and leather, sprout a forest of tattered bookmarks. Careful not to disturb the sleeping occupants below she leans forward to read the spines. John Milton sits sandwiched between Bonner the Stochastic and a well-thumbed copy of John Masefield poetry. On closer examination she can see that the bookmark protruding from the pages is actually a child's drawing. Peter, she thinks. Whatever happened to Peter?

The swish of the doors makes her jump as if she's been caught spraying graffiti on the walls and she turns with a guilty start.

"Christine. I wondered where you'd got to."

The doctor’s voice is oddly flat. She gestures to the couple on the bed. "Took a while but they're sleeping." She catches the frown. "I had to put them in here, Len. There isn't another bunk on the ship."

McCoy smiles with a weariness she's rarely seen in all her years as his head nurse. "I know, I know, darlin'. It's fine. You did the right thing. It's not as if the Captain needs his cabin right now."

"No..."

He stares round the space much as she'd been doing a minute earlier. "And when he does get back the chances of persuading the darn fool to get off the bridge and lie down... Might as well tell a dog to stop scratchin'..."

The determined 'when' rather than 'if' hangs between them but she doesn't challenge it. The Captain always comes back. No matter what the odds. They both need to believe it.

He sighs and walks over to the desk on the other side of the partition. He seems lost somehow, moving like an old man. Which he isn't, not yet.

With one last glance at her sleeping patients, Chapel steps round the mesh to join him.

"So how are the new arrivals? Doctor M'Benga was still scanning when I left, but there didn't seem to be any ill effects from the transporter."

McCoy nods slowly. "Our resident miracle worker saved the day once again. I still don't know what Scotty did -- he was mutterin’ about some sort of damned quantum level filtration matrix -- but it worked. No duplicates." His face darkens. "One of 'em had to be resuscitated in the transporter room -- they'd never have survived a shuttle journey."

She touches his sleeve, keeps her voice gentle.

"You did what you could, Len. A lot of those people in sickbay owe their lives to you. The ones who didn't make it were beyond saving."

"Yeah, well... we'll never know, will we?"

He starts to stack the scattered data cards into neat piles on the desk. "If we could just track down their comms signal we could have Jim and Spock back here in the blink of an eye. But there's no trace. Scotty thinks they're down too deep. Or their communicators have been disabled."

The set jaw and the grim expression tells her the doctor's thoughts are a long way from this quiet cabin. And she has a shrewd idea of the doomsday scenarios unfolding in his head.

She'd been off ship recruiting new nurses when the _Enterprise_ visited Alpha 177, but she'd heard all about it from Janice. Had spent long hours hearing Rand's endless theories about "Let's stop pretending", what did that mean exactly? Agonising about how the impostor's actions had driven a wedge between her and the Captain. Privately Chapel marvelled at her friend’s capacity for self-delusion. James Kirk, the consummate professional, was never going to step over that particular line. She thought it had been a something of a relief all round when Rand had jumped ship for a new career path.

She looks at her boss aimlessly stacking and restacking the coloured squares on his friend's desk. "We'll get them back, Len. The two of them together are pretty much an irresistible force. I'll bet you any money that right now the Captain's charming his way out of a tight corner and Spock's engineering some supremely logical solution to whatever fix they're in."

"Yeah. I'm sure you're right. It's just..." McCoy glances up and she's suddenly struck by how much this mission's taken out of him. He looks ten years older than he did before those first casualties materialised in sickbay. "It's a helluva thing, Christine. To see those men firing at innocent civilians like that. To know they're aiming to maim, to kill even. You can't get it out of your head. Starfleet security officers--"

"They're not--"

"--I know they're not, Chris. But they started out that way. And now...well, god knows what they are. All I know is right now Jim and Spock are facing a whole bunch of 'em and, from what I saw, they're going to need a lot more than logic and charm to worm their way out of this one."

He bows his head, pressing his fingers white against the desk. "Sorry, Christine. I--"

The whistle from the comms unit cuts through before he can finish.

"Bridge to Doctor McCoy."

"McCoy here."

"Doctor, you're needed in the transporter room. Mr. Scott says the latest sensor sweep has picked up some new bio-signs. He thinks it's the positives, the ones from the original team."

"Does he now? Tell him I'm on my way."

The transformation is instant, as if it's energy rather than information that's been transferred through the simple thumbing of the comms switch.

She follows him as he strides for the door. "Positives? Does that mean what I think it means?"

"Well now, Nurse. I'm a doctor not a clairvoyant. But we're overdue some good news. I have a hunch this might be it."

He leaves her standing outside, staring at the retreating figure now moving at remarkable speed down the corridor. She shakes her head, convinced she's so tired she's hallucinating. At least that’s the only explanation she can find for the fleeting impression that just before he turned his head, Leonard McCoy actually...smiled.


	7. Part Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When I conceived this story this was the chapter I had in my head first. The final chapter came second. Everything else took shape around them.

 

 

Chess - a game of intellect and strategy, of outthinking your opponent.

Poker - chance and bluff, a game of raised stakes and calculated odds.

Chess or poker. It has been Kirk's experience that the solution to a crisis, and crisis management has become something of a specialty over the last five years, will usually involve strategies drawn from one or the other and, more often than not, some combination of the two.

The problem is that when faced with a trusting gaze from a small boy at the wrong end of a phaser this doesn't feel like a game, and certainly not one he wants to play.

"If you would step over there, please gentlemen."

Adjusting his rumpled clothing, Rawlson gestures to the opposite wall, the one shielding the darkened chamber which Kirk now regrets not investigating further.

He doesn't move. His First Officer does, but in the opposite direction to the one indicated. Spock steps out from the shadows under the staircase, still holding the incriminating lab coat from the storage locker. They are now side by side. And, while Miller's phaser remains pointed in its current direction, powerless.

Check.

"Let the boy go, Rawlson." It is taking all Kirk's got to keep his voice calm and even. "You're a Starfleet officer. You took an oath, remember?"

"Was a Starfleet officer, Kirk. Was," corrects Rawlson. He picks up the heavy briefcase and crosses behind the arcing sparks of the power conduit to stand with the three men at the doorway. "We've had a parting of ways, remember? My allegiances lie...elsewhere."

Turning his head to the corridor Rawlson confers with his security team in a low voice. Jake starts to pull away and, with barely a glance down, the lieutenant tightens his grip on the boy's shoulder, producing a muffled yelp. The casual cruelty ignites a slow burn of fury, but Kirk forces it down with the ease of long practice. No time for that.

Eyeing the men across the room he looks a question at his First Officer who shakes his head. The conversation is inaudible, even to Vulcan ears.

Spock moves fractionally closer to his shoulder and murmurs, "Captain, our communicators are currently inoperable. But in my assessment they are not beyond repair."

"Communicators?" This is the first Kirk has heard of that possibility. "Where?"

"They had been concealed in the storage locker." Without moving his head Spock flicks his eyes down to the flat surface of the console where he has placed a stained white lab coat.

"That's excellent news, Mr. Spock." An opportunity - a hidden card. It remains to be seen whether it is high enough to outrank his opponent's hand.

The men in the doorway have reached a conclusion. Rawlson produces his own weapon and points it at Jake leaving Miller free to kneel and open the briefcase. From Kirk's position it's impossible to see the contents but the light from the corridor is reflected upwards in a red glow. Miller removes something and closes the case with a click. Then, ignoring them, he walks over to the wall opposite and slides open a door.

"Captain Kirk." The Commander's words spill like oil staining silk. "We all know you will do as I say. So why prolong this?" He jabs the phaser point against Jake's bandage. The visible wince makes both officers take an involuntary step forward. Rawlson huffs an escalating warning. "Ah, ah, ah. That would not be wise."

Kirk finds himself wishing his first suspicions had been accurate. That he was dealing with a duplicate Rawlson. Somehow that would be easier than believing the man in front of him was ever part of the service. But he has to try.

"Rawlson - think what you're doing. He's a child." You wouldn't... The next words hang unspoken, and they'll stay that way while he's fixed by a gimlet stare from a pair of blue eyes, while grubby fingers clench and a trembling bottom lip is bitten into stillness.

"You show a touching faith in my morals, Kirk. Who knows what I would or wouldn't do at this point?"

The smile is almost cheerful. The man has a phaser pointing at the skull of a 12 year boy, and he might be discussing the pros and cons of equipping himself with an umbrella in the light of the recent weather forecast. "I may be insane. I'm sure that thought has crossed your mind. Or perhaps I'm bluffing. What I'm relying on, my good Captain, is that you won't take that gamble. Even you. Not when the stakes are this high." He ruffles Jake's hair in an obscene parody of affection. The boy jerks his head away as if he's had an electric shock. Rawlson laughs, that high pitched laugh that betrayed his duplicity and sets Kirk's teeth on edge. But the noise stops as suddenly as it began.

"I will not ask again, Kirk." The voice is low now, the eyes focused. Its owner stands straighter, then lifts the phaser away from Jake's temple just long enough to gesture to the door. "Move. Now."

Kirk blinks. Two men in one body. Personality as pendulum. How did Starfleet psyche evaluations miss this?

Lights flicker on in the room on the other side of the wall. Kirk can see Miller moving around behind the glass.

The familiar calm pours through his bones like cold syrup, bringing absolute clarity in the face of his options.

Raise. Call. Bluff.

The commander is very keen for them to step next door. He has a suspicion about what awaits them in the adjoining room. But a change of scene, a shuffling of the cards, presents...possibilities.

He turns his head and meets the eyes of his First Officer. A nod and the two of them move as one towards the chamber which is now bathed in blue light.

Rawlson follows, grabbing the heavy briefcase and pushing Jake in front of him.

The scent of singed circuits, of ozone and hot metal is stronger here. The air positively crackles with escaped electrons; they prickle discomfort across Kirk's scalp and raise the hairs on his forearms. The scene that greets them on the other side of the sliding door is both familiar and, in the context of recently acquired knowledge, terrifying.

Miller stands at a console, his fingers on the controls and his face glowing in the blue of reflected display. Rawlson joins him, one hand clamped firmly around Jake's shoulder and the other still grasping the pointing phaser.

And, on the far side of the chamber, Kirk notes with a weary sense of inevitability, are the transporter pads that the part of his brain that works on stuff when he's not looking had been expecting. Three illuminated circles on a raised platform. Standard Starfleet installation for the bowels of a small scale colony. Yet he doesn't need to see the glee on Rawlson's face to know that this particular transporter is far from a standard configuration.

Rawlson examines the display panel and seems satisfied with what he's reading. He lifts his head.

"You know I'm almost glad it worked out like this. For years I've looked at that picture and wondered. And now I get the chance to meet him at last. Your mirror image. The less than perfect Captain Kirk."

Kirk is quite sure he doesn't shudder. Not outwardly.

You're mad are the first words that spring to mind. And hot on their heels, You'll have to kill me first.

But, of course, the phaser isn't pointing at him. It's not his life that's forfeit.

Instead he ignores the men at the console and turns to his First Officer who stands with unusual rigidity even for someone who long ago perfected the peculiar alchemy that turns Vulcan vertebrae from bone to steel.

Time for chess. He hopes that Rawlson's fascination with the _Enterprise_ logs only extended as far as the events of Alpha 177.

"You know what this reminds me of, Spock?" he remarks conversationally, "Omicron Ceti III. Do you remember? The transporter room?"

A beat before Spock turns dark eyes from the transporter platform to his Captain and nods slowly. "I do recall those events, yes Captain."

Kirk takes a small step closer towards the console, towards Jake, disguising the movement with a laugh and a punch to Spock's arm.

"That was quite an adventure, eh, Spock?"

Out of the corner of his eye he can see Miller is on the move, stepping round the console. He's still concealing something in his hand. Something he had removed from the briefcase Rawlson clutched in expectation of imminent evacuation to the _Enterprise_. Something...

Kirk spreads his hands wide. "Those spores really made a monkey out of you. I can still remember you hanging from that tree. We laughed about it for months."

Rawlson frowns. "I'm not sure you're grasping the seriousness of this situation, Kirk. We don't have time for reminiscences. I need you to-"

Spock pitches his voice lower, almost a growl. "I do not appreciate you revisiting those circumstances in present company, sir. I believe you should focus on the crisis at hand."

"Oh, don't be such a spoilsport, Spock. Listen Rawlson. You'll enjoy this. Our prim and proper Vulcan actually thought he was in love. Went all gooey eyed over a human woman if you can believe it."

"I am warning you-"

"Of course, it was all a hallucination. A few lungfuls of alien spores and he's anybody's. You should have known better than to inhale, Spock."

Miller smiles at that. And Rawlson's transfixed, the phaser point dropping.

"I had to snap him out of it - truth be told I think she was glad to get rid of him-"

With a roar the Vulcan lunges.

Rawlson instinctively steps forward and Miller jerks back to avoid the accelerating bulk of a charging Vulcan. Who neatly sidesteps the ostensible target of his fury and reaches for Jake just as Kirk makes a grab for Rawlson's phaser.

With the cold metal of the weapon held point first in his palm, he spins and aims what should be an unconsciousness inducing chop at the back of the commander's neck. But the man is faster than he looks. Dropping like a stone, he rolls forward so the blow barely connects.

Propelled by his own momentum, Spock hits the wall with a thud and an audible 'oof' from the small boy he has tucked under one arm. The two guards are coming through the door and Kirk takes a split second to reverse the phaser in his hand and a split second more to thumb the control from kill (good god, he really meant to...) to stun. But split seconds are all it takes.

Too late he senses rather than sees Miller come up behind him; too late raises his arm to block the hand that plunges chill metal against his collar bone. Which means he's too late to stop the hiss of the hypospray, to pull away from the sting of the drug that trickles warm liquid under his skin.

Paralysis is almost instant. It stops him as he stands, robbing him of movement and almost of breath. His lungs hang suddenly heavy in his chest, as if the air around him has turned to liquid, forcing his chest muscles to flutter in their fight for oxygen.

Breathing heavily, Rawlson stands and snatches the stolen phaser from his clenching fingers.

"That was foolish, Kirk. Very foolish." Pointing the phaser directly at a gold clad sternum Rawlson very deliberately thumbs the control back to its original setting and nods at the man behind him.

"We've waited long enough. Get him on the transporter."

Distantly Kirk is aware of his arms being twisted behind his back. Of a relentless pressure propelling him towards the glowing transporter pads. His legs lock but there's no oxygen flowing to fuel his muscles. It's as if he's watching someone else's feet slide and scrabble across the tiles.

"You will cease this."

There's something about a Vulcan full of repressed fury that could make a photon torpedo stop in its tracks, reverse course and crawl carefully back into its tube. The room stills.

Kirk tries to draw enough breath to form words but speech seems impossible at this point.

Still pointing the phaser Rawlson takes shelter behind the transporter console and attempts to make it look like a deliberate decision.

"Really, Mr. Spock. In other circumstances your concern for your Captain would be quite touching. Give me one good reason why we should, as you so quaintly put it, 'cease' what we're doing."

Spock stands, pushing Jake behind him and straightening his uniform. "You do not know. You do not understand. You were not there." Spock's voice is harsh; his words fall like stones.

Rawlson hesitates and then jerks his head across at the man behind him. Kirk feels the pressure ease.

"Explain yourself." Sharp, impatient; but there's an undertone of concern.

"The logs - the _Enterprise_ logs from Alpha 177. They were incomplete..." Spock now has his voice back under control. He stands rigid and outwardly composed. At least that is how it would appear to those who do not know him as well as the man who stands immobilised beside him. "The Captain's duplicate was irrational, an animal. He will not perform the function you seek."

The queen on the chess board has pushed herself out into play, protecting the vulnerable king from circling aggression.

"No, Spock." It's barely a whisper. The drug has worked its way beyond his chest, paralysing his vocal chords. His tongue feels like furred lead.

A frown from behind the console. "I understood the imposter took over the bridge. That he attempted to take command."

"That is inaccurate. In fact the imposter was barely human. He lacked intellect. His behaviour was erratic and he was largely incapacitated. Kirk lied. He forced me to sign off his version of events."

Miller now. "Why should we believe you, Vulcan? You would do anything to protect your Captain."

"Vulcans do not lie."

Kirk wonders how often he has heard "Vulcans do not..." in the last five years. And wonders why it has taken this long for him to fully realise that the phrase 'Vulcans do not' as employed by his half human First Officer can be both wistful aspiration and deliberate obfuscation.

Rawlson, however, nods sagely and, like so many before him, takes what he hears at face value. "But why--?"

"We needed an explanation for the length of time it took us to become apprised of the transporter malfunction, and for the delay in resolving the crisis. The landing party almost died. It was…I believe the word the Captain used was, 'embarrassing'. Our subsequent recording of events exaggerated the capabilities of the intruder."

Rawlson nods slowly. "Yes, I see."

The chess board spins, the pieces float and land. The next move is inevitable.

"Spock..." A breath through gritted teeth. The Vulcan flicks his eyes sideways but otherwise ignores him.

Rawlson grins. "I think you may just have talked yourself into a job, Mr. Spock."

"Indeed."

Miller grabs his arm but Spock shrugs him off as an irrelevance and independently takes the few steps needed to stand calmly on the transporter pad, gazing down on a psychopath with his fingers poised on three sliding controls, on a small boy, mouth agape. And on his Captain frozen and furious.

"Commander, I believe you will find my duplicate has the qualities you need. And, as second in command of the _Enterprise_ , the crew will obey my orders as readily as those of the Captain."

James Kirk is fearless. At least that's his reputation and it's been earned. But he and one other person in this chamber of horrors know that the Captain fears three things - losing his crew, losing his command and losing his First Officer. His friend.

For a brief moment the adrenaline surge is enough to cancel the drug's effects. But only in the region of his vocal chords.

"Spock!"

The shout is drowned by the escalating metallic whine of a transporter console doing its job. And then the words all vanish in the dark.

Yet, even with eyes closed, the image burns. The dying sparkle of the ta'al, offered in salute and farewell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what do you think?
> 
> It took a lot longer to get here than I'd originally planned but this was always where I was heading. Would love to hear your thoughts.


	8. Part Eight (but chapter 13)

[Chapter ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1119572/chapters/2255691)13

 

_The scent of burning and the taste of blood._

_He is back in Rawlson's office. Tied. Helpless. The cold metal pipes leach warmth from his veins, strength from his arms. He cannot move. Even his eyelids refuse to co-operate so when the shadow fills the doorway for a moment he cannot look up._

_But he knows. Even as he refuses to accept it he knows who it is. The presence that blocks the light from the corridor is more terrifying because what should be as familiar as his own reflection is now alien. Hostile. Malevolent._

_Spock._

_And when his eyes do find their target it is worse than the image his imagination supplied. The face set hard. The eyes indifferent. Kirk blinks, convinced for a moment he sees the shadow of a goatee beard, the glint of a belted sash._

_"Spock... untie me."_

_He doesn't know why he makes the plea. It is obvious there will be no help here._

_He's almost lost Spock before -- to the darkness of a deep space amoeba with an appetite for starships, to a shuttle crash while investigating a quasar like phenomenon in Murasaki 312, and, in a memory that intrudes too often into the very worst of his nightmares, to the relentless self-destructive demands of Vulcan biology. But he is a starship Captain. He's learned to deal with loss. He's had to._

_But this is worse. This is mutation -- of someone who, to him, has always embodied the very best of two worlds. This is mutilation -- of a friendship which has become central to who he is. Its absence creates a vacuum that sucks the air he needs to form words._

_The figure in the doorway stands motionless. Pitiless. A stranger._

_He cannot move._

_And then he's furious._

_How dare you? How dare you sacrifice yourself? You... had... no... right._

Fear is ice and paralysis. Fury is heat and energy. An energy that burns through the poison in his veins, propels him through a fog of sleep and unconsciousness and brings him upright with a shout.

The restraints dissolve, the shadow in the doorway disappears in a retreating whirl of blinding colour and suffocating dust.

Silence.

When his vision stabilises he realises he's sitting against a wall and facing a defensive tangle of knees and elbows behind which a small boy eyes him with a mixture of suspicion and concern.

"What...?" His voice is a croak of dusty dryness. He coughs and tries again. "Jake. Are you ok? What happened?"

The knees and elbows shift enough to reveal a grubby finger pressed to lips. They're not alone.

They're sitting in some sort of cell rough-hewn out of rock. The discarded packaging that litters the floor suggests a space formerly used as a storage bay. The blue glow from the unbarred doorway suggests a forcefield of some kind. And the glimpse of a red uniformed shoulder standing guard outside suggests they won't be going anywhere fast even if that forcefield fails.

Another cell, another impossible situation. But this time it's different. The hum of the transporter echoes through his brain like the worst headache he's ever had.

The dream image lingers at the periphery of his vision. Forbidding. Terrifying.

For a moment he thinks he's going to be sick. He heaves himself onto all fours and retches sending a jolt of pain down his left side. There's nothing in his stomach to bring up and after a few minutes he sits back on his heels, breathing heavily. Cold sweat prickles across his forehead.

An elbow disentangles itself long enough to produce the small miracle of a flask of water. Kirk drinks gratefully. He's dizzy. Tilting his head back makes the walls blur and swim.

"Thank you."

A nod. Another glance at the doorway. He moves closer to Jake and lowers his voice to a whisper.

"What happened, Jake?"

Jake's reply is hoarse. "You fell over. Flat out." Pursed lips and a scowl at the memory. "They got really mad. He kicked you."

That explains the pain in his side. He'd put it down to the earlier contretemps with the guards.

"But what happened to Mr. Spock? Did you see...?" He swallows hard. "Did you see him... on the transporter?"

"He never came back."

"Never...?" A flash of fear. Visceral in its intensity. Kirk fights it down along with another wave of nausea.

"I told you... they got mad. Shouting. I thought there was going to be right set to. Then that man -- the fat one -- he told the guards to get rid of us. They carried you here. Me too. Well, I walked. He made me." Jake tilts his head. "Figure they don't want to kill us though. Would have done it by now. And they gave me this." He points to the flask of water.

Bright lad, Kirk thinks, taking another swallow and a deep breath which isn't a good idea. He's had enough broken ribs in his time to recognise the symptoms. But somehow it helps. The sharpness cuts through woozy waves of sickness. Think. He has to think.

"We're not far then... Not far from the transporter room?"

"Far? No." Jake regards him with curiosity. "What are you thinking?"

Kirk doesn't reply. He looks across at the broad red back standing guard in the corridor and then at the litter on the floor, packaging and packing tape.

Sweeping the side of his hand through the dust on the floor, he clears a space to draw a circle with a fingertip. Keeps his voice low.

"Right -- so we're here. Do you think you could draw me a map?"

Jake's face clears. "Yeah, easy." He leans forward and pulls his finger in a line across from Kirk's circle.

"That corridor outside runs crossways from the main tunnel to the control room. Transporter room is... well, you know, it's right next door. There are more mining tunnels going off thataway..." The artist sticks the tip of his tongue out in concentration, "Three of 'em I think -- two are dead ends but one of them slopes up to the surface, up to the smaller warehouse, the one across from where you guys found me." He draws a square up and off to the right. "Most of Miller's lot are in there --"

"How many?"

"About fifty. Maybe more. But they're not in good shape. Your lot stunned a few before the shuttles arrived. Those ones were really out of it. Some of the others are just sitting around shivering."

The effect of the duplication process, thinks Kirk. Accelerating with each generation. So Giotto and McCoy had got as far as the shuttles. With the colonists. Good news.

Jake continues, "-- I thought Miller might have my mom but when I sneaked a peek there were only red shirts. I figure once they realised some of them took her off somewhere."

Kirk lifts his head at that. "Once they realised... Once they realised what, Jake?"

Blue eyes meet his, surprised. "Once they figured out who she was, of course."

Kirk has the distinct sensation he's missing something. He looks back at the map. He's had worse briefings from junior ensigns on his own starship. Slowly, "Jake. What does your mom do on the _Demeter_?"

Jake sits back on his heels and brushes the dust from his fingers. Even at a whisper there's no mistaking the pride in his voice. "She's the Captain. Just like you. Didn't you know?"

 

 


	9. Part Nine

 

[Chapter ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1119572/chapters/2255691)14

 

"What the hell were you thinking, Spock?"

The doctor's question is not unexpected. It is, however, at this juncture rather more difficult to answer than should be the case.

What were you thinking when you stepped onto the transporter platform and saw your frozen Captain vanish from your vision? When you close your eyes the image residue lingers in patterns of yellow dust.

It has been your experience that rational thought is not possible during transportation process. Yet on this occasion the hiatus between the lurch of disassembly and the fractured burn of materialisation has produced an impression that in fact several minutes of lucid thought have occurred. It is... fascinating.

"Whoa there, Spock. I think you'd better sit down."

The doctor's voice is suddenly gentle. But when you open your eyes he seems determined to confuse your senses by swaying at least thirty degrees from the vertical and refusing to remain stationary.

You decide to ignore him and instead focus on the figure in red behind the transportation console. You step down from the platform and close the space between yourself and the Commander. That space appears to have widened since the last time you transported on board the _Enterprise_. An alternative theory is that the process of transport has inadvertently decreased either the length or the muscular integrity of your legs.

"Mr. Scott, the Captain is in immediate danger. Please assemble a security team and initiate... command protocol..." The exact sequence of protocols escapes you momentarily. You have the sense you are unreal. The unfocused outline of your thoughts blurs as if each is superimposed upon another beneath.

"Aye sir. But the doctor's right. You need to sit down."

"I can assure you I am perfectly well, Commander."

It proves necessary to emphasise this point by extending a hand and placing a firm grip on the edge of the console. Which seems unexpectedly reluctant to retain its current position and slides between your fingers as if on castors.

"You will be in a moment, Mr. Spock. But that was a rough transport. We had to leave your pattern in the buffers for longer than I'd have liked."

"Damn fool Vulcan. You might at least have given us some warning you were about to fling your molecules around the universe." But there is warm relief in the doctor's tone. And now man in blue and his humming tricorder is by your side. The distant hiss of the hypo seems unrelated to the pressure in your upper arm.

"How do you feel, Spock?"

How do you feel? The reply that presents itself is inappropriate.

_How do I feel? With every nerve ending, Dr McCoy._

A joke? Really? Now?

An alternative reply surfaces, equally inappropriate.

_How do I feel? That is none of your concern. Why must you humans continually dissect the emotional affairs of others?_

You dismiss the flapping thoughts and lift your fingers to the bridge of your nose reaching for the familiar safety net of mental control. Which, on retrieval, appears alarmingly elastic.

"Am I correct to assume, Mr. Scott, that you have successfully modified the _Enterprise_ transporter?"

"Aye, Mr. Spock. And that was a canny thing you did there, sending that data burst from the colony control room. But the transport took me by surprise. You took a hell of a risk, sir. How did you know we'd intercept your pattern?"

"I did not, in fact, know you would be successful."

Actually you had calculated the odds of a duplicate or corrupted pattern outweighed a possibility of a successful intercept by a factor of five point seven to one. Yet you did not hesitate. The thought process that both preceded and apparently accompanied the transport is...both an irrelevance and an unnecessary distraction.

The doctor's hypo is beginning to take effect, the internal blur to focus and resolve. You straighten and move behind the console to stand alongside the engineer, barely registering the whoosh of opening doors.

"The Captain has been incapacitated," you say. "He occupies a space some 1.7 meters from the transportation platform. In addition there is a child. A hostage from the _Demeter_. He too is in danger."

Doctor McCoy is incredulous. "Jake? Jake was there with you?"

Mr. Scott points at the console readings. "I'm sorry, Mr. Spock. We're still unable to scan that far down with any precision. As I said it's a bloody miracle we were able to grab your pattern from the colony buffers."

"Then I return to my original order, Mr. Scott. It is imperative to assemble a fully armed security team with medical support. I will brief the team myself as I have the most recent data on both the colony layout and the probable location of hostile forces --"

"-- Are you sure about that, Commander?"

The cool clear voice from the doorway is unfamiliar. For an instant the blur of command gold confuses. As do the engineer's next words.

"Captain. I wasnae expecting to see you down here."

The woman who steps into the transporter room is a stranger. Yet there is something familiar in those sharp blue eyes. And there's a weariness there too.

She offers a ta'al in salute. "Apologies, Mr. Spock. I'm Captain Glover. Until recently in command of the _Demeter_. Did I hear you say you've had the dubious pleasure of meeting my son?"

 

 


	10. Part Ten

 

 

Perhaps it's guilt. Perhaps he's seen enough casual cruelty for one mission. Perhaps the events of the past few hours mean he needs to cling ever tighter to the tattered remnants of civilised conduct because, goddammit, this is who he is.

Whatever the reason, as he tightens the packing tape around the guard's slack wrists he finds he's trying to avoid the adhesive sticking to the dark hair under red sleeves. Because, Kirk thinks, that will hurt when he wakes up and tries to pull it off. If he wakes up. The man's skin is clammy, his breathing harsh and he hadn't put up much of a fight in the end. Which was just as well. Kirk's uncomfortably aware of his own limitations right now.

He checks his captive's fastenings one last time then sits back on his heels blinking away the black spots in his vision. He's not particularly proud of himself for succeeding with the oldest trick in the book. After all he'd barely had to feign the illness that persuaded the guard to lower the forcefield to investigate.

Jake is standing at the door, head swivelling.

"Anyone?"

The lookout shakes his head and beckons impatiently. "Coast's clear. Let's go."

They step out into the passageway and into pools of light that flicker irregularly into shadow. The warm air shifts around them, scented with burning plastic. Down the centre of the tunnel rails gleam through black dust but there's no sign of the mining carts they're designed to carry. Yet these tracks have been used, Kirk thinks, and recently.

"This way." Jake starts in the direction that will take them up to the surface. But Kirk stops him with a hand on his upper arm.

"No. We need to go back."

"Back? Back to that room? Why?" A mutinous glint in blue eyes and perhaps just a hint of panic. Kirk knows he's already lost some of his flagship commander gloss in the Jake's eyes. Watching someone collapse in a heap and then seeing them on their knees retching their guts out will do that. He bends to bring himself down to the boy's eye level, fingertips on shoulders, and addresses him man to man. Starship captain to son of starship captain.

"Listen, Jake. I need my communicator. It's there - in the control room, hidden, and I think I can fix it. We need to tell the  _Enterprise_  where we are." He glances up the passage into the shadows. "We don't know what's going on up on the surface. And we're unarmed."

A hesitation then Jake nods and turns.

"This way then. That's where they dragged..." he quirks an eyebrow, "that's where we came from."

He sets off with a determined stride but Kirk pulls him back and behind.

"Nice try. I'll lead."

Jake glowers at that but reluctantly falls back.

Kirk has never liked tunnels; has never felt the urge to go caving, to fold himself into underground spaces and learn a world by torchlight. It's not that he's claustrophobic, he tells himself, it's just that given the choice he'll always opt for a sky full of stars, an open rock-face and a view. He feels vulnerable here in this shadowed world of dark sludge and curving corners in a way he never does suspended over the void. And it's not just the absence of a phaser in his hand, or the pressure of gravity compressed rocks above his head where there should be space and sky. The fact is there's a small boy where his First Officer should be and he's never felt more exposed.

He's long ago given up trying to justify his preference for taking Spock along on almost every away mission - and it's been almost as long since Spock stopped quoting the regulation that cautions against both senior members of the command crew absenting themselves from the bridge at the same time. If challenged he would have pointed out that their results speak for themselves. But he's rarely challenged, at least not by anyone who holds command rank outside the  _Enterprise's_  sickbay. Success is apparently its own cloaking device in the upper echelons of Starfleet.

And now a voice is whispering in his ear that it's over. That the Vulcan shaped vacuum at his shoulder is permanent. That even now his friend's molecules are dispersing in the solar winds above a poisoned planet. Kirk closes his eyes against a pain in his chest and a gnawing hollow in the pit of his stomach, neither of which have anything to do with broken ribs or the after-effects of a toxic hypospray. And opens them again.

Nothing is certain, he reminds himself, including escape from their current predicament. And that, at least, just might be within his control. There will be time enough for regrets and recrimination.

They haven't gone far when they hear it -- an explosion, muffled by the rock above them. Kirk stops, his hand against the tunnel wall to feel the vibration through his fingertips. Not close. But not far enough away either. He nods to Jake and they increase their pace, hugging the walls.

The second whumpf is close enough to shake clouds of black dust from walls and ceiling. And now he can hear voices directly ahead but out of sight.

He takes stock of their surroundings. It's just their luck that the lights in this part of the complex have chosen that moment to respond to the unseen percussive force by flickering to full intensity. But further ahead the rails curve into a shadowed side passage.

"This way." They make the opening and swerve out of sight just in time. Kirk's none too gentle as he pushes Jake down into a crouch beside him, face first against the wall. Which means he can only estimate the numbers that pass as a blur of shouts and red shirts and running boots - twenty, twenty five? He wonders how many that leaves on the surface and what sort of state they're in.

As the noise recedes he keeps a hand on Jake's twitching shoulder.

"Wait..."

A last shout, the dying echo of footsteps. The air stills and his eyes become accustomed to the gloom in their side tunnel refuge. Which, he realises, isn't quite as gloomy ahead as it should be given there's no apparent light source above them. When his eyes follow the rails snaking away from the main passageway he's left with the strange impression of heat, of metal glowing red in the dark. He sniffs. There's an odd smell here, a unpleasant sweetness that reminds him of the decay they found in the warehouse. It's like chemical toffee at the back of his throat.

Jake coughs and the noise echoes off the walls making them both wince.

"Sorry," the boy mouths, but there's no reaction from the main passageway. Kirk gives a small reassuring shake of his head and stands slowly, still focused on the mystery ahead. Jake follows his gaze.

"What...?"

Kirk raises a finger to his lips and steps slowly forward. Not heat, he realises, light. The glow is a reflection. And he has a suspicion there's a reason the rails lead in this direction. He motions Jake to stay where he is as he moves further down the tunnel, but the crunch of boots behind him tells him he's been ignored. He's really going to have to work on restoring some respect for command ranks round here.

The first sign is the change in air temperature, a cool breeze on his cheek that hints at open space ahead and then, as he rounds the corner stepping carefully over the debris that litters the floor, the red glow is suddenly all around him, bathing him in bloody light.

There's a gasp from over his shoulder but he can barely draw breath, can only stand open mouthed, slowly tilting his head upwards and blinking as he tries to make sense of what he's seeing.

A cave, the height of a cathedral and the length of... well, he can't even begin to estimate the length because the far wall disappears into grey shadows. The deep red crystals are everywhere, hanging in cuboid stalactites from the roof, embedded in walls of fractured grey rock, smashed in fragments across the floor. Dangling cables link arc lamps set at crazy angles among the rocks and their light refracts and reflects in red and magenta shafts of varying intensity so it almost looks like a set for a stadium concert, with the main act being a reconstruction of Dante's Inferno. As his vision adjusts he can see the evidence of a mining operation interrupted – abandoned carts, the powerful teeth of a gem drill half buried in one wall. He remembers their journey to the control room, a warm Vulcan grip and a whispered warning. "Jim, I do not trust..."

_Oh, Spock. You knew. Even then you knew._

"What... what's that red stuff?" Behind him Jake's awed voice brings him back to the now.

What indeed? In the absence of a tricorder, or a science officer at his shoulder, all he has to go on is his own internal database and a jigsaw of memories.

He thinks back to the background notes for Deneb III, to the preliminary reports from the survey team, breathless excitement buried between the strata of dry geological data, to a briefing room screen, a deep voice and flickering graphs of spectral analysis. To the half-truths told in an underground control room humming with static and menace.

_"The surveys were correct - if anything they'd under-estimated the mineral wealth here."_

And finally to an open briefcase and a hard face reflected in a red glow.

He looks around him at a world of grey dust and scarlet crystal and inhales a scent that takes him back to long forgotten chem labs.

"Beryllium. Beryllium crystal. Of course. We should have known."

 

 


	11. Part Eleven

"Damn it, Spock. I'm a doctor not a geologist. What the hell is Beryllium crystal?"

 Vulcans do not sigh. Neither do they experience impatience. It is, however, inevitable that there should be some tension between the quite logical impulse to progress towards necessary action without undue delay and the need to convey the information required at a speed commensurate with the mental processing power of those who now stand in the  _Enterprise's_  transporter room and regard him in an expectant semi-circle.

His Captain may be poisoned and paralysed in a subterranean chamber beyond the reach of the ship's sensors but his voice still whispers in a Vulcan ear -- and it counsels that without an adequate briefing the odds of a successful rescue mission are considerably diminished.

Spock inhales what he hopes is an invisible deep breath and searches for the appropriate vocabulary for his audience.

"As I say, I cannot be certain. However, the initial geological surveys of Deneb III suggested large deposits of the element beryl below the planet's surface and my own tricorder readings confirmed sulphur to be present in the planet's precipitation. It would only require time and the requisite pressure for beryllium crystal to be formed, in substantial quantities."

Captain Glover finishes attaching the phaser to her hip and raises her head.

"I am familiar with beryllium crystal, Commander. One of my previous supply runs included a safe deposit box containing several low grade examples. I remember querying the estimated value on the ship's manifest. They were worth more than the rest of my cargo put together."

Dr McCoy is incredulous. "So that's what you think all this was about? Good old fashioned greed. You think Rawlson was attempting to duplicate the crystals they found."

Spock shakes his head but before he can correct the doctor there's an even more emphatic negative from the figure in red who steps from behind the console.

"No. Duplicate crystals would be worthless," says the ship's chief engineer. "I'll bet he tried it and discovered that for himself."

The doctor remains stubborn. "What do you mean worthless? A rock's a damned rock, ain't it? And it's a hell of a lot less complicated to duplicate than a flesh and blood human being. Who's to know the difference?"

The man who has spent a substantial portion of the preceding four years becoming a galaxy expert on the devastating properties of a certain yellow ore from planet Alpha 177 takes a deep breath but before he can embark on an explanation he catches sight of the ship's First Officer who, via a barely perceptible lifting of the central portion of both eyebrows, is managing to convey the Vulcan equivalent of an imploring glance.

"They'd be cloudy," Scott says briefly. "The matrix wouldn't survive replication."

The Captain of the _Demeter_ is thoughtful. "And anyway, Commander, you reported evidence of extensive mining activity. That suggests they were after the real thing. It sounds as if they found it, and when everything went to hell Rawlson decided to jump ship, or rather board ship, with whatever he could get away with."

Spock regards the Captain of the _Demeter_ with new found respect. "Indeed. Our difficulty is that we have been presented with a mixture of truth and fabrication. For example we know that Deneb III was indeed short on supplies--"

McCoy snorts. "No surprise there. And I'll bet those cretins in Material Supply Command are already busy trying to pass the buck."

With the ease of long practice Spock ignores both the interruption and the colourful injection of human idiom.

"-- so it is possible the Commander was initially motivated, at least in part, by the need to replace dwindling stocks. In addition, the pattern of dispersion of the ore from Alpha 177 in and around the central warehouse supports his account of storm damage leading to accidental contamination of the transporter array."

"I heard the same story from the original colony team too," says Glover, remembering her own recent incarceration. "The ones who were in a fit state to talk anyway. But it sounds as if Rawlson was already losing it before the storm hit. He'd locked up half his senior staff on various trumped up charges." Her eyes darken. "Which, as it turned out, was lucky for them. At least they're in one piece." Silence then as the room remembers bodies stacked in an unlit warehouse, and the dead from the  _Demeter_  now lying in the  _Enterprise_  morgue.

Spock considers this new information. "Their incarceration may have been an attempt to remove those who were becoming suspicious about the exact nature of operations beneath the planet surface."

McCoy raises a finger. "Hang on a minute, Spock. You've lost me. What exactly was Rawlson up to with that ore from Alpha 177 if he wasn't replicating crystals? My money's on experimentation. The man's obviously got no morals to pull that stunt with Jim, and then with you."

Spock thinks back to the figure holding a phaser to the temple of a small boy, to a pendulum personality, and a picture on an office wall

"For years I've looked at that picture and wondered. And now I get the chance to meet him at last. Your mirror image. The less than perfect Captain Kirk."

And he ponders the odds of obsession, schizophrenia and science colliding with those particular  _Enterprise_  log entries from Alpha 177.

Enough. Morals and mental health can wait for quiet evenings over a chess game that currently stands unfinished in the Captain's quarters.

Spock folds his hands behind his back and straightens against an ache whose origins he prefers to leave unexamined.

"It is my hypothesis that the Commander was using the ore to duplicate the materials and equipment he required to undertake undocumented mining operations for personal gain and had recruited some of the less scrupulous members of his team to that end."

Captain Glover nods to the security chief waiting patiently with his team and takes the few steps required to mount the transporter platform.

"Right, gentlemen. If we're finished with the geology lesson it's time to move."

She hesitates. Strictly speaking it's the ship's First Officer who's now in charge of the Fleet's flagship but Spock's thoughts are far from the niceties of Starfleet command structures. Now the moment has come he finds himself regarding the transporter platform with a renewed appreciation of its function which he must conclude is the result of his recent experience within the pattern buffers. As he hesitates, the whisper is back.

_"Come on, Spock..."_

The memory arises unbidden.

_A sparkle in hazel eyes, and a rueful grin from the man who lies sprawling in the snow at his feet, having narrowly escaped departing hooves. The Andorian quadruped now huffs steam from a wary distance having demonstrated exactly what it thinks of playing vehicle to a human passenger. As Spock extends a hand, his immediate anxiety for the integrity of his Captain's bone structure is overwhelmed by a warm grip, which communicates both unwarranted delight and an alarming intention to repeat the experience._

 

_"Sir, might I suggest we take advantage of our host's original suggestion and avail ourselves of the waiting aircar to proceed to our destination."_

 

_An aircar which has the additional advantage of an integrated heating system, he adds silently, suppressing a shiver. But the Captain is already on his feet and moving in altogether the wrong direction, one hand feeding the other a length of rope which is all that's been provided as both restraining device and halter._

_"You've got to get back on the horse, Spock."_

 

_Spock eyes the quadruped with suspicion._

_“The animal in question is not a horse, sir. It is a Zabathu which appears to have an acutely sensitive sense of smell and is therefore reluctant to accept you as a rider. I question the logic of re-attempting --"_

 

_But the Captain is shaking his head._

_"You've got to get back on the horse that threw you," he says patiently, as if this is in fact an explanation for his current conduct. "My grandfather taught me that when I was seven."_

 

_Spock tries and fails to understand why a family member would advocate repeating a pattern of behaviour which, on the balance of probabilities, seems likely to result in a loss of dignity at best and severe injury at worst._

_He opens his mouth to expose this obvious flaw in received ancestral wisdom but his Captain is ahead of him in both thought and physical space._

_"It's not about logic, Spock," he throws over his shoulder. "It's about fear. You leave it too long, and all you can remember is the fall. Before you know it you've given up riding for good. Hah!"_

 

_This last expletive is one of triumph as the rope is successfully looped around the neck of the reluctant steed. With a jump and a swing of the hips he's astride and this time the mount seems less inclined to rid himself of his cargo. "The trick is to avoid the unexpected," Kirk declares from a height, silhouetted against ice and sun. "This time he knew what I was going to do." He grins, "And maybe he's getting used to the smell. Come on, Spock."_

"Get back on the horse," he murmurs. The power of expectation.

Captain Glover looks startled. "I'm sorry, Mr. Spock... what did you say?"

Spock slowly raises his eyes from the transporter platform and turns his head to address the assembled team.

"Captain. With your permission, I would like to suggest an amendment to our proposed strategy."

 

 


	12. Part Twelve

 

 

 

His fingernails are filthy. 

Paul Rawlson stares at the curved lines of embedded black dirt, at his own grey palms, and wonders if he'll ever be clean again. The thought of the millions of Denevan microbes even now breeding in the moist warmth beneath his cuticles induces vague nausea. 

He spread his fingers flat against his desk, white flesh on black dust, and throws his focus. The hands don't belong to him. He's safe. 

white on black 

black on white 

A chessboard and some grains of rice. The wise man's reward. Numbers are clean. They shine a grid inside his head in reassuring solid lines. 

One, two, four, eight. 

He lives in his head - that's what they said. Foster parents, counsellors, teachers. As if that was a bad thing when inside his head lay a world without shadows and sniggers; a world he could control, shape, define. Paul Rawlson ventured out only to excel in the clean sterility of the science lab. But by the time adolescence hit, his head had become an increasingly crowded place. 

Sixteen, thirty two, sixty four. 

Intellect was his defence. He soon learned that the outside world could forgive eccentricity when twinned with brilliance and achievement. And, as he climbed the ranks, he found that eccentricity could be disguised, subsumed, its edges blurred and blunted once you'd made both the rules of social intercourse and the parameters of Starfleet psyche tests the subject of exhaustive study. 

One hundred and twenty eight. Two hundred and fifty six. 

The other is quiet now. He's learned to dread the silence more than the voice that whispers his inadequacies in mocking sing song. Silence offers space for the thoughts that breathe infection faster than the dirt he fears. 

Five hundred and twelve. One thousand and twenty four. 

Around him the air deadens then rocks with another explosion, sifting a black cloud onto the backs of his hands, into his hair. He can taste it; grit crunching between his teeth, chemicals coating his tongue. Filth inside and out. He shudders. 

Two thousand and forty eight. Four thousand and eighty four. Grain of rice spilling from the board. Rattling staccato onto the floor. 

When he closes his eyes he can see the bodies. Can see the men in red shirts stepping over their own prone reflections unseeing. And now the third generation have found the explosives and seem to be engaged in some sort of private war. Why did he think he could control this? As if flesh and blood could be manipulated by numbers on a computer screen, like some grotesque video game. 

Miller screwed up. That's the only explanation for the Vulcan's disappearance. He should have checked the transporter co-ordinates himself. And now... now escape on board the _Enterprise_ seems as remote a prospect as a hot shower and a clean uniform. He thinks longingly of the decontamination chamber next to his laboratory on Epsilon three. 

Then it starts. The whispering sing song. "You'll never get away from here. You'll die on this poisoned planet. Buried along with your crystals." 

"No!" 

He stands, chair falling backwards with a crash, dragging hands down a filthy blue shirt. 

The briefcase is by the door. But as he crosses the office to pick it up he almost trips, boot toe hitting a solid object on the floor. Bending he picks up the framed hologram, shaken from the wall by the last explosion. Hazel eyes mock him from under the film of dust. Kirk. The golden starship captain. The man who tamed the beast within. Even as he stares he can feel the other rising, soaking upwards one vertebra at a time. 

Shoulders straightening he flings the frame across the office where it lands with a satisfying crack.

There's still the shuttle, under tarpaulins in warehouse 10. It's designed for low orbit only, to transport supplies and personnel from one end of this cursed archipelago to the other. But surely even his rusty piloting skills can get him within range of the _Enterprise_. And then... Well, he knows the drill. They'll tractor him on board. And he still has the crystals, two hostages and four more syringes with a cocktail of drugs should they prove resistant. He can do this. 

But as he turns to leave he's finds his way blocked. Torn red shirt, dead eyes and a phaser held in trembling fingers. Barker has deteriorated, respiratory distress, tissue hypoxia producing cyanosis. How long? 

"Here you are. Where's your communicator? We've been trying—“

No knock, no sir. Rawlson eyes him coldly. 

"We discussed this, Ensign. There'll be a team from the _Enterprise_ here any minute. And they'll be scanning. Communicators are a liability. Now report." 

Barker draws a shuddering breath and steadies himself with a hand on the door frame. "We've found him. Miller sent me. We were in the control room. He just called in." 

"Who called in, Barker? You're not making sense." 

"It's Commander Spock, sir. It worked. You should have heard him." Barker's fevered, sweat shining, eyes blinking rapidly. "Cold as ice. Got to confess, it gave me shivers. But he's with us, no doubt about that. Says he's taken care of everything." 

Spock. Alive? It's been more than an hour since the Vulcan vanished, since his pattern evaporated from the colony database without trace. How...? Rawlson finds himself looking over the red shirt's shoulder as if half expecting the _Enterprise_ 's First Officer to materialise in the corridor. But no, Barker said-- 

"Where, Ensign? Where was he calling from?" 

Barker looks off to one side, frowning. "We don't understand. The Lieutenant says he set the control room destination himself. But maybe one of the others had set an over-ride. You know, when they beamed up to--" 

One of the Rawlsons wants to hit him. The other steps forward and keeps his voice as steely as he can manage. 

"Barker... where... is... he?" 

"He's... Well, sir. He's on the _Demeter_."

 

-oOo-

 

Jake is staring at him, with a frown that's demanding reassurance he's in no position to give just now. Kirk continues to crouch under the control room console where they'd ducked just in time when Miller and the others arrived. 

Jake's whisper is worried. "You look like you've seen a ghost." 

A ghost — yes. He stares down at the broken communicators in his hand, retrieved from under the stained white lab coat where Spock had left them in game of poker a lifetime ago. 

Spock. Alive. 

He lifts his head to look back at the small boy who shares his hiding space and opens his mouth. Then closes it again. He can't find the words he needs; can only replay the voice he's just heard crackling through the control room speakers. 

Spock. Divided? 

He has no idea what he believes. He has no idea what he feels. And, more worryingly, right now, in this moment, James T. Kirk, starship Captain, has no idea what he should do.

 

 


	13. Part Thirteen

 

 

 

 

You are beginning to believe the impossible. It is, after all, almost unprecedented. But on this occasion Leonard McCoy may have been correct. 

 _"But goddammit, Spock. You don't actually have to go over there. It's enough that they believe you're on the board the_ Demeter _. Leave it to Giotto and his team._ _”_

The reasoning you presented in the face of the good doctor's advice was supremely logical. It touched on your familiarity with the warped personality and motivations of the former commander from Deneb III -- whose shuttle is even now coming within tractor beam range of the colony ship, apparently still unaware of your subterfuge -- on the unavailability of Mister Scott whose expertise is required on board the _Enterprise_ , and on the necessity for a senior command figure to accompany the team. Captain Glover, you heard yourself argue, is compromised as team leader due to her familial relationship with one of the potential hostages. You note, however, that you have somehow been able to ignore your own equally compromised position regarding the second potential hostage. 

It is this compromised position which is now causing you to re-evaluate your opinion of the good doctor's advice. Because, as the shuttle approaches, as you run through the likely outcomes of the multiple scenarios now playing out behind your eyelids, you find yourself favouring the options which result in serious injury to the current occupant of the pilot's seat. 

This is unacceptable. 

Yet you find yourself unable to imagine the scenario where you would have remained on board the _Enterprise_ while the man responsible for poisoning her captain and removing you from his side approached co-ordinates within the range of a moderately ambitious space walk. 

You are relatively certain that those around you are unaware of your compromised position and you intend to keep it that way.  

Which makes it essential that, as you scan the numbers which inform the sine waves on the screen in front of you, sensor readings diverted from the _Demeter_ bridge to her shuttle deck, you resist the unexpected temptation to make firm physical contact with the console interface. 

However, the man at your shoulder does not have the benefit of a lifetime reading the Vulcan masters. Commander Giotto swears softly. 

"Dammit. Still too far away." 

"Indeed. However, I estimate the shuttle will be within scanning range in three minutes forty six seconds."

Two hundred and twenty six seconds of uncertainty. Before 'potential' decouples from 'hostages' and becomes either one word or an irrelevancy. Meanwhile, although you know there is no need to remind the _Enterprise's_ chief of security that the narrowing of the distance between the two vessels enables a two way process, you are unable to stop yourself clearing your throat and stating the obvious. 

"It is time, Commander.” 

Giotto nods and pulls out his communicator. 

"All teams switch coms on my mark. Short range only until you get the all clear. We're on silent running." 

The _Demeter_ now floats in a geostationary orbit enclosed in a bubble of silence and static while below a world continues to turn. For another one hundred and ninety seven seconds you can pretend that Dr McCoy was unnecessarily emotional in his analysis of the placement of command personnel. After that you suspect reassessment will not be a priority.

 

-oOo- 

 

Despite his reputation as a miracle worker the _Enterprise'_ s chief engineer doesn't actually believe in miracles. He's well aware that every bypass rigged, every circuit re-engineered to function outside its design brief, every decimal point of additional warp speed squeezed from protesting engines, is simply the result of sifting the laws of physics through the sieve of a cerebral cortex which may be unique in its engineering ability to join the dots, but for which he claims little credit. 

He has been in no hurry, however, to disillusion those who apparently believe he harnesses a higher power every time he pulls the Fleet's flagship back from the brink certain destruction, if for no other reason than it's been a long time since he had to pay for his own single malt in any bar frequented by members of the service's engineering corps.

But today his atheism regarding miracles is meeting its most serious challenge yet. 

He stares accusingly at the speaker mesh on the control panel in front of him and draws a breath. 

"Captain.... Captain Kirk....is that you?" 

"Scotty...?" The voice is soft, wondering. It lacks the bass notes of command he's expecting, and for a brief moment the engineer thinks of ghosts in the machine and over active imaginations. But when the voice comes again it is stronger and more familiar. 

"Scotty -- yes, Kirk here. Can you pinpoint our signal?" 

A brief glance at the console confirms the impossible. Two strong life signs, at a surface location he recognises. And weaker signs too -- just a few metres away. 

"I can, Captain. And if you dinna mind me asking, how the blazes did you end up...? 

"Long story, Scotty. No time. We need a medivac now." 

"Are you hurt, Captain?" 

"What? No... it's not for me." The voice grows muffled for a moment. Something about a pulse. Then it's back. "We have four casualties here. Two Deneb security. And two from the _Enterprise._ Kingley and Yamamoto. They're in a bad way. Unconscious.“ 

There's a crackle of static before Kirk continues. “And once the medivac's on its way raise shields -- Spock's on the _Demeter_ but --" 

Scott spares no more than a passing thought to wonder how on earth his captain knows the location of his First Officer, any more than he wonders how his CO has somehow managed to regain possession of a working communicator; some things, like the Captain's ability to emerge unscathed and smiling just as his senior officers are starting to silently rehearse their contributions to his eulogy, just aren't worth questioning. 

"--aye, Captain. We know. Giotto's there too with a security team. And there's no need to send a shuttle." 

As he embarks on an explanation of his latest modifications to the _Enterprise's_ transporter array he's aware of a certain impatience at other end of the communication link. Just as he's about to explain the finer points of quantum level manipulation required to counteract the ore's effects on the pattern buffers he's interrupted. 

"-- all right, Scotty. I should have guessed you'd manage something like that. In that case, five to beam up. But don't bring me back to the _Enterprise_. I want to go straight to the _Demeter_. Can you do that? Transfer me straight over there?" 

"Aye, Captain. But do you no think you should get back here? Dr McCoy won’t --" 

"-- Bones, will get his chance to have a good prod at me. All in good time, Scotty. But I need to..." 

The hesitation is uncharacteristic, and Scott frowns down at the console. 

"Just get me to Giotto's team on the _Demeter_. Rawlson’s on his way but there’s still time." An audible protest in the background and a sigh. "No, Jake, you can't come..."

It's only later, much later, that Scott thinks back over that conversation and realises what was missing. 

-oOo-

 

It is still true that Vulcans do not sigh in relief. So the breath of air that escapes before your lips clamp firmly shut is no more than required respiration.

 

The _Demeter's_ tractor beam is powerful enough to guide several hundred cubic meters of cargo from planetary orbit into its storage bays. It has, therefore, been a straightforward task to lock onto the bulky sub orbital shuttle emerging from the clouds of Deneb's stratosphere. It has proved a little less straightforward to finesse the controls so that a vehicle never designed for prolonged exposure to the vacuum of space does not disintegrate into several tons of orbital debris before it can be manoeuvred into the correct position for embarkation.

 

Yet the nod you give to the screen before you owes less to the safe capture of the shuttle than it does to what else those numbers indicate.

 

At this distance the sensor readings can be trusted. And none of the bio signatures on board match those of either a small boy or the youngest starship captain of the Fleet. There are a myriad of possible reasons why Rawlson has apparently abandoned his trump card on the planet surface but you refuse to consider the most obvious.

 

You would know. It is not possible for the universe to subtract the captain's presence from the sum total of life forms in your vicinity and for you _not_ to know.

 

No hostages.

 

No need for a rescue plan which involved high precision targeting and a high risk of casualties.

 

The possibility looms of a conflict free resolution. You turn to the man at your shoulder but Giotto can read a screen as well as his ship's science officer and is already gesturing to his team to melt into the shadows behind the empty cargo nets leaving you alone at the console.

 

You have approximately thirty seven seconds before the shuttle hatch opens.

 

Thirty seven seconds to prepare for...

 

You are not thinking of Christmas. That would be an illogical use of the time remaining.

 

You are focused on the task at hand, on the cool metal of the phaser in your hand and on the changing pressure in your ears as the external doors begin to open and the forcefield shimmers.

 

So you are not thinking of an arcane human festival and the scent of spiced wine and the echo of laughter.

_"But Spock, this year you'd be perfect. You'll learn the script in no time and it's not that big a part."_

 

_"Lieutenant Uhura, I fail to understand why you would continue in this endeavour when my answer this year remains the same as it was when you asked me to participate in a similar venture 367 days ago."_

_The captain's smile is bright enough to eclipse the fairy lights which have appeared in irregular loops around the ship's refectory courtesy of under-employed members of the engineering department and are now apparently serving no purpose other than to offend your sense of geometry._

 

_"Give it up, Lieutenant. Our First Officer is never going to tread the boards in the Christmas review. He's no actor. Whatever made you even contemplate the possibility? "_

_The look the_ Enterprise's _communications officer gives you is a touch too shrewd for your comfort._

_"I think you do him a disservice, Captain. I have a hunch our first officer plays a part every day of his life."_

_A choked guffaw from the ship's CMO while Kirk becomes unusually interested in the citrus fruit which appears to have achieved a state of negative specific gravity within his mulled wine. You see him shoot a warning glance across the table but inevitably Leonard McCoy is enjoying this conversation far too much not to participate._

_“_ _I_ _’_ _m afraid I agree with our Captain, Lieutenant. You_ _’_ _re fighting a lost cause._ _”_

_"But..."_

_"Although of course with those ears you might consider him for a walk-on...not sure where you'd get an elf costume that fits though."_

The memory of laughter drowns in the hiss of closing shuttlebay doors.

 

And now, as you carefully shift the phaser from your hand to its holster, as you straighten your shoulders against a fatigue that is disproportionate to the length of time since your last sleep period, you use the remaining eleven seconds to wonder why it is a surprise to discover that Lieutenant Uhura was right all along.

 

 

 

 


	14. Part Fourteen

For a moment, standing in the dazzle after so many black hours buried underground, Kirk thinks Scotty has disobeyed orders. That he's back on board his own ship. But the moment lasts no longer than it takes for the sparkle to fade and for the lines to sharpen at the edge of his vision. James Kirk knows the hum of his _Enterprise_ as well as he knows the sound of air in his own lungs and this ship, for all its harsh light, smooth curves and recycled air, isn't breathing. It is a dead thing; cold enough to mist his breath, but not too cold to mask the stench of decay. The scale is wrong too - corridor curving too soon, ceiling too low - and on either side run doors in gunmetal grey not red.

He takes a step and underfoot the floor is sticky. When he looks down he realises. He's standing in blood. Dried brown spatters paint a path of past horror in fading footprints. Brown not green he thinks and shuts off a rush of feeling that in another time and place might have been relief.

Another few paces take him round the curve and within sight of a doorway helpfully emblazoned Shuttle Bay 2. There's a hiss as the pressure changes in his ears and it's enough of a clue to tell him what's happening beyond the bulk head. So Rawlson's shuttle has survived the journey. He's barely made it in time.

In time for what? Suddenly he wonders what exactly he thinks he's doing here, still dizzy from a drug administered not long enough ago and with every breath an uncomfortable reminder that his cracked rib cage would prefer not to expand thank you very much. But somewhere on board the _Demeter_ his First Officer is in trouble. His Chief Medical Officer might disagree – _Oh really, Captain. You think?_ -but every instinct tells him this is where he needs to be.

He thinks back to the overheard conversation in the control room - to the disembodied voice of his First splintered by sub space interference. And fractured by a corrupted transporter pattern? Impossible to tell. It's enough to know Spock's here. Alive. Possibly in duplicate.

Large as life and twice as natural, his tired brain supplies in sing song voice. Where's that from? Lewis Carroll he thinks. Through the looking glass. Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Chess and monsters and mad dictators. And here he is, Captain Alice, trying to make sense of it all.

Where's Giotto? Scotty said he had a team here but there's no sign of him. Right now he'd give a great deal to see the solid bulk of his chief of security appear around the curve of a corridor. He needs a plan and he needs a phaser. Not necessarily in that order. _Actually, Bones, what I really need right now is a drink._

He stops and leans on the doorframe. Closes his eyes for a few deep breaths. The knife in his chest helps clear the fog from his focus. Think, Kirk.

The security team will be waiting on the shuttle deck. Out of sight. Standard procedure with madmen and hostile shuttles. And Spock must be there too. That's what he'd said on the comms link. But which Spock? When he opens his eyes for a moment he sees the scenarios stretch away, reflected down a hall of endless mirrors and trap doors. Enough. Time to shatter the glass.

 

-oOo-

  

"You did _what_?"

Sometimes Scott thinks the Doctor's default setting is controlled fury but, judging by the bulging eyes and flushed cheeks, 'controlled' may be about to climb the scale to 'unrestrained.' At least one of them can stay professional. He keeps his voice even in the vain hope it will have a calming effect.

"The Captain insisted, Dr McCoy. I did tell him you'd want to see him first but--"

"Dammit, man. You have no idea what sort of state he's in. Was he even lucid? Does he know what he's walking into over there?"

Scott thinks back to that soft voice from the console speaker and straightens his shoulders.

"Aye, he was lucid. He sounded like...well, he sounded like the Captain." And my commanding officer, he adds silently. The man who gives me orders I've learned to trust over the past five years, even when they seem daft; even when they ask the impossible. He clears his throat. "And he knew where Mr. Spock was. He knew about that Rawlson fellow too. That he was heading for the _Demeter_. I'd say he was fully briefed." He tries to ignore the whisper of doubt, the nudge of 'something missing' even as he meets the furious gaze of the ship's CMO.

The doctor snorts. "Fully briefed, my ass. Who by? Last we heard the man had been poisoned and paralysed. God knows how he even got hold of a communicator." He turns to the console. "So have you told the away team? Have you told Spock?"

Scott shifts his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot. His mouth is dry. "Not yet. They're on silent running. Communication's down ship to ship until the shuttle docks."

McCoy lifts eyes and hands to implore an inoffensive ceiling tile, "Lord save us from military protocol. Someone's got to sort this mess out," then takes a firmer grasp on the med-kit that appears to have been welded to his shoulder since the _Enterprise_ received its first casualties and strides towards the transporter platform. "Get me over there, Scotty. Before it's too late."

It is not a good time, the ship's chief engineer judges, to further outline the transporter restrictions imposed by the order for silent running. And in any case, a few minutes spent fussing with the console will make little difference in the long run.

 

-oOo-

 

Lieutenant Commander Barry Giotto is patient, unimaginative man. It must be true because it says so, right there in his Starfleet psyche profile, alongside his service record and the long list of commendations for leadership and calmness under fire. The second part of this evaluation he has no quarrel with. He's proud of his record - all of it - and takes no offence when he reads the gently guarded remarks from successive commanding officers about a certain lack of creativity in his thinking. Leave the blue sky stuff to the James T Kirks of this galaxy. It's been his experience that, for those who enlist in the Fleet's security service and wear a red shirt with pride, a vivid imagination leads only to trouble.

And so, although instincts honed by long training mean he does not miss the movement in the doorway of shuttle bay two, any inclination to imagine that the shadow had, for a brief moment, coloured itself in command gold is easily dismissed as a trick of the changing light and shifting air currents produced by the slow descent of a battered sub orbital shuttle still steaming from its recent transit through the stratosphere of Deneb III.

See - the shadow's gone in a hiss of condensing gas. No, he's comfortable with unimaginative. It's the patient part of the description that's giving him trouble today. Another man might be angry about the day's events. A man who hadn't been through the years of Fleet training, the endless exercises in discarding an emotional response in favour of effective action, a man who lacked the planetside experience of losing in minutes a dozen trusted and trusting men… Well, that man might be mighty peeved by the sights he's seen today. But anger clouds clear thinking, and plays merry hell with a trigger finger.

So it must be impatience that's pressing an invisible hand in the small of his back, impatience that's creating the faint sheen of moisture in the palm that cradles a warm phaser, and impatience that tickles an itch in the toes of his boots currently standing in the shadow of a cargo net as the shuttle sighs towards its moorings and the bay doors hiss shut. His focus is on the occupants of that shuttle and on the unpredictable nature of their upcoming interaction with the _Enterprise_ 's First Officer who now stands as rigid as any bulkhead and awaits the green light that will signal the shuttle bay's secondary forcefield has reached full strength.

This is almost over. As the hull comes to rest on its supporting cradle he can see the 'almost' shrink with every millimetre.

 

-oOo-

 

 It is inconvenient, Spock thinks, that Vulcan ethics will not countenance the employment of a mind meld without consent. Since the Captain and Jake are evidently not on board the shuttle it is therefore incumbent upon him to persuade Rawlson and his team to reveal the necessary information by...other means.

As the shuttle steps unfold with a hiss of frozen gas condensing in response to the relative warmth of the dock, he summons up a persona he has never met but about whom he has read in exhaustive detail in the mission logs of the four crew members who experienced events precipitated by a magnetic storm in the stratosphere above Halcon.

The grubby figure who appears at the hatch appears in no hurry to descend. Eyes narrowed, Paul Rawlson scans the shuttle deck then fixes both his gaze and his phaser on the figure waiting below.

"Well, Mr. Spock. So here you are. We thought we'd misplaced you." That high pitched laugh, another scan and a tentative first step before, "I confess we are still at a loss as to why our transporter decided to deposit you here rather than at the originally programmed co-ordinates. But..." that laugh again, "It’s an ill wind as they say. This may work out rather well for all concerned."

Another step. And behind Rawlson a figure appears in the shuttle doorway. Miller mutters something in his commander's ear. Who frowns and looks from one end of the shuttle deck to the other. "Are you quite alone, Mr. Spock?"

Spock, noting with some relief the absence of a tricorder, inclines his head. "I am, Commander." When Miller scowls Spock understands the full implications of the query and continues with what he hopes is a suitably meaningful tone. "I was... accompanied on arrival. My counterpart has been...taken care of."

The phaser does not waver but the figure descends slowly, breathing more heavily than should be necessary given atmospheric conditions on the shuttle deck. For the first time Spock notes the black case gripped in the commander's other hand.

"Good, good. And am I to assume you are capable of piloting this vessel? At warp?"

Spock makes a swift assessment of the likely extent of knowledge of transport vessels possessed by the man before him, the glimmer of desperation in those pale eyes. "Indeed." He folds his arms. "But I am currently unpersuaded that I should aid your attempt to escape from Starfleet jurisdiction."

He pauses. His next words must achieve the twin goals of continuing to maintain his current alter-ego subterfuge while persuading the man in front of him to reveal the whereabouts of the two missing hostages. Only then can he give the signal that will bring the security team from the shadows.

Avoiding the temptation to steal a glance at what, for a moment, had appeared to be a slight movement in those shadows, he fixes a gimlet stare on the descending figure. "Our odds of successfully evading Starfleet pursuit would be substantially altered if we were in possession of...an effective weapon."

Rawlson has reached the hangar deck with a clang. "A weapon, Mr. Spock? I am not sure I follow you. You're surely not suggesting a stand-off with the flagship of the fleet." He huffs a nervous laugh. "I had in mind the employment of a suitable distraction tactic followed by a swift and stealthy exit."

Spock wastes little time on the fleeting incredulous thought that the man before him seriously believes that the bridge crew of the _Enterprise_ would either be taken in by a feint or fail to track the distinctive signature trail of the _Demeter_.

Instead he continues. "Negative. I refer to your two hostages, Commander. The Captain and the young man formerly of this vessel." _The boy you were willing to kill. The man you poisoned._ "Their presence would considerably improve our odds of a successful... I believe the term is 'getaway.'

Rawlson gives a sideways glance towards his two companions now fanning out behind him on the hangar deck, phasers, Spock notes uneasily, swinging unsteadily. Both men have deteriorated markedly since their last meeting. The younger of the two - Barker, Spock remembers from a recent close encounter between a knee and an Adam's apple in Rawlson's office - is scanning his surroundings with panicked, jerky movements. Meanwhile, the Lieutenant formerly known as Miller is moving as if underwater. He stumbles as he rounds the tail of the shuttle and reaches up to steady himself, breathing heavily.

Before Rawlson can answer, Barker turns red-rimmed eyes on the waiting Vulcan.

"I suggest you forget about the hostages, Spock." His voice is harsh, painful. "They're gone. Gone for good."

For a fraction of a second something twists in painfully in Spock's chest. He chooses to ignore it and to focus on Barker's exact words.

"Gone," he repeats. "If you would clarify-"

But before he can finish there's a clang from behind the shuttle. The pair of horizontal boots emerging from the supporting struts suggests Miller has succumbed to unconsciousness. Barker swears softly and takes the few steps needed to kneel by his side.

"Marcus," He grasps the man's shoulders and shakes the prone form in a manner unlikely, in Spock's view, to produce a response. "Damn." He looks over at Rawlson still standing indecisively on the shuttle ramp. "He needs a boost. Give me one of the hypos."

Rawlson shakes his head and grasps the case protectively. "No, there's no point. He's had the full dose."

Barker glowers. "What are you talking about? You said you had plenty... a new batch. You said the others only went down 'cos--"

"I know what I said. And you're not listening. He's had the full dose." Rawlson's dismissive. "Leave him. We don't need him. We're here now." He shifts the briefcase under one arm and gestures toward Spock. "And we have the very capable Mr. Spock to take care of us."

Shifting numbers on a screen that flickers, a memory lit by a sparking power conduit. A column marked G and a chronology that did not - quite - adhere to logical progression. So that is how the Commander kept the loyalty of a selected few. With a compound that slowed the inevitable deterioration and the empty promise of a future.

Spock watches as realisation hits. Barker stands, and takes a step towards his former commanding officer, face contorted with rage, phaser shaking.

"You lied. You bastard. You lied. Give me that case." Barker is aiming at Rawlson but he is in no condition to shoot straight. "Kirk was right, wasn't he? He was telling the truth. I'm dying. We're all dying."

This will not do. If Rawlson disappears now in a burst of phaser fire it will, Spock thinks, be no loss to Starfleet. But with him will die information which could be crucial to finding the _Enterprise_ 's missing captain.

Spock takes a step forward. Sees Giotto in the shadows reach the same conclusion at the same moment. And sees Rawlson wide eyed and furious back away swinging his phaser between three targets.

And it is of course at this moment that the missing captain chooses to put in an appearance.

 

 

 


	15. Part Fifteen (chapters 21 and 22)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Parts and chapters have parted company when posting on this site -- I'd ignore them if I were you.

 

"Goddammit, Jim. Hold still."

The man on the floor is still fighting, muscles in spasm beneath the doctor's fingers. But he daren't risk a hypospray. Not until he can get his Captain onto a biobed for full analysis of that damned poison Rawlson used too few hours ago.

"Jim, look at me." The hazel eyes are glazed, unfocused.

A shadow falls over them. "Captain..." The voice is familiar. The tone is not.

The body under his hands bucks, more weakly this time and McCoy looks up. "Can you give me a hand here, Spock? I can't-"

The Vulcan kneels, leans inwards, extending fingertips to his Captain's forehead. "Jim..." It is more whisper than word but the effect is instantaneous. The Captain stills and now his focus sharpens and shifts.

"Spock. You're... you're not-"

"No, Captain," the bent head agrees. "I am not."

"Oh. Good. That's good, then." And James T Kirk, soldier and starship captain, with a reputation for stamina that spans the Alpha quadrant, closes his eyes and quietly passes out.

McCoy glares up at the empty space that should contain at least one member of the security team. "Where the hell's Giotto?"

Spock does not move his gaze from the unconscious form under his hands. "The security team are presently engaged in a search for Commander Rawlson and for Crewman Barker who left in pursuit. I regret the Captain's unexpected arrival resulted in…" He raises one forefinger to prevent a trickle of blood taking the path of least resistance to the deck from Kirk's temple via cheekbone. "I was unable to prevent their departure from the shuttle deck." The Vulcan seems to have retreated far within himself. His next words are almost inaudible. "There was no logic to the Captain's actions."

Leonard McCoy has spent enough time in the company of his CO and the _Enterprise_ 's First Officer to fill in most of the gaps. The frozen tableau that greeted his arrival on the shuttle deck, still spitting invective over the inability of a certain engineering chief to prioritise medical advice over command protocol, had completed the picture. That Jim Kirk would put himself in the line of fire to save a member of his crew is so predictable he sometimes wonders if they should just log the times it doesn't happen to save valuable post-mission drinking time.

"Dammit Spock. Logic? When did logic play any part in the way you two--?" But the doctor's triage instincts take over. "Never mind. We need to get him on onto a biobed yesterday. I don't like the look of these readings..."

But Spock has already opened his communicator.

"Mr. Scott, code nine. Medical team to sickbay. Please beam Dr McCoy and Captain Kirk aboard immediately."

 

-oOo-

 

As per specification for a Constitution class starship, the  _Enterprise's_  sickbay is soundproofed to an SRI of 90 plus. Presumably Starfleet's design engineers intended to protect seriously ill patients from the decibels of a starship working day. But there are times when Christine Chapel is inclined to think that it is the rest of the ship which should be grateful for the insulation that separates bio beds from deck five's corridors and cabins.

"It's the last time, Jim. I know I've said it before but this time I mean it. I've got better things to do than patch up your sorry ass." Without turning his head from the biobed McCoy holds out his hand. Suppressing a sigh, Chapel supplies the expected padd without a word. She knows better than to interrupt mid-rant.

The doctor scans the screen. "And dammit -- on top of everything, that molar's come loose again. I don't know why I don't just whip 'em all out and put you on soup and puree for life. See how well that goes down with the ladies."

He's enjoying himself, Chapel realises. Partly because this is inevitably a one way conversation, at least while the subject of McCoy's invective remains resolutely unconscious. But mostly because at last he's got Jim Kirk where he can see him. And he intends to keep him there. It may have been her imagination but she could have sworn she saw the doctor's fingers twitch towards the restraints when the Captain was transferred from stretcher to biobed.

"Why, for once in your life, can't you act like a starship captain and stay on the bridge where you belong? Instead of going around antagonisin' folks and pickin' fights." The pulsing of the overhead monitor increases slightly and McCoy frowns. "So you heard that, did you? Well, good. Let's hope it's starting to penetrate that thick skull of yours." He's getting into his stride now. "You might have started off as the youngest captain in the fleet, Jim, but it's about time you started growing up. Time you quit playing superheroes before both of us keel over."

Chapel smothers a smile as the patient starts to stir. Kirk cracks an eyelid then closes it again.

"Have you quite finished, doctor?" The voice sounds dusty. Chapel reaches behind her.

McCoy does a good job of hiding his surprise at his patient's earlier than expected return to consciousness.

"Finished? Why Captain, I'm barely getting started." And there's the hand again. Chapel presses a beaker of water into the waiting grasp. Without missing a beat, the doctor presents a straw to parched lips, the gentleness of his actions in sharp contrast to the accompanying commentary. "What the hell did you think you were playing at over there? Spock says you were flinging yourself around the shuttle deck like some sort of human shield. I don't know why you insist on thinking you've got to nursemaid that pointy eared automaton. Seems to me he's plenty capable of taking care of himself."

That's not what she's heard. Ship scuttlebutt has a tendency to exaggerate when it comes to the antics of its Captain and First Officer, but even taking that into account it sounds as though if it hadn't been for the Captain's dramatic reappearance on the  _Demeter_  shuttle deck the ship would be looking for a new First Officer right now. Even that robust Vulcan physiognomy was unlikely to survive the impact of three way phaser fire.

Kirk raises a weary hand. "Okay, Bones. But can we save the lecture for another time? Where's Spock now?"

"Still on board the _Demeter_ , last I heard. No, you don't."

Kirk ignores the hand on his shoulder and lifts himself onto both elbows. "What's he still doing over there? Where's Rawlson? And who's on my bridge?"

"Scotty's in the chair. And Spock's with Giotto. That son of a bitch Rawlson's gone to ground and they're tracking him down. He won't get far. Jim, lie down. Those ribs are hanging together with nothing but my wishful thinking and a few regenerated cells. They need time. And that stuff Rawlson poisoned you with is still flushing through."

Chapel watches the familiar pattern with a sense of déjà-vu. Lying conscious on a biobed is Kirk's least favourite position. The doctor knows this. But he never abandons hope that this is the one time his CO will listen to sound medical advice. Privately she thinks the possibility of Kirk remaining horizontal given the information he's just been given is unlikely to be that time.

"Bones - I don't know what you did but I feel like a new man. As soon as this is over I'll be all yours."

Kirk swings his legs over the side of the bed with a barely suppressed wince.

"Jim, so help me, you're a stubborn bastard. If I have to sedate you I will, poison or no poison." This time the outstretched hand stays empty. Chapel folds her arms.

McCoy glowers and turns to the tray on the counter beside him. "I'll invoke regulations. You're in no fit state to...Goddammit... Aha!" But when he turns back, brandishing a triumphant hypospray, the empty air makes no reply.

 

-oOo-

 

It should not be possible for two men to disappear within the relatively limited confines of a ship designed to hold no more than 250 people. Granted the  _Demeter's_ dual role as transporter of cargo and colonists means an unusually high proportion of the ship's bulkheads are constructed of double shielded hydrogenated Kevlar and thus impervious to tricorder scan. Yet a team of six Starfleet security and one highly motivated science officer should have been able to locate two disorientated fugitives within a period of substantially less than twenty-seven minutes.

There is, after all, nowhere for them to go.

Unless. He flips open his communicator.

"Spock to  _Enterprise_."

"Scott here,"

"Mr. Scott. I require some information from Captain Glover." A brief pause.

"Glover speaking. How can I help you, Commander?"

"Captain. May I enquire whether the blueprints with which we are provided are an accurate reflection of the  _Demeter's_  layout? I refer specifically to the links between your bridge and your transporters."

The hesitation speaks of puzzlement. "Accurate? Well, yes, Mr. Spock. Of course, we've been in space a long time and occasionally it's been necessary to introduce modifications... But I'm not aware of -- What is it, Jake? I'm talking to --"

Another pause. A muffled interchange. Then, in a different tone, "I think you should have a word with my son, Mr. Spock."

 

-oOo-

 

It's dark here. And quiet. But Rawlson knows better than to trust the silence. Starfleet security officers are well trained. They're still here. Still searching. And now with Miller dead and Barker…gone? Captured?…he's alone.

He doesn't need them. He doesn't need any of them. Alone is best. They're better alone - always have been. How could he have forgotten? All those years of pretence. All those wearisome explanations of the obvious to the foolish. Done. He's done.

The access hatch is stiff but thanks to the drug they're stronger than ever and the mechanism turns easily. Now the way ahead pulsates with light, as if he's following an electric circuit. Details at the edge of his vision blur as he passes, the corridor bends and shimmers, but the schematic of their plan glows in his head, clean and cold. The perfect temperature.

 

 

[Chapter ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1119572/chapters/2255691)22

 

Ten lateral paces and two vertical steps - that's all it takes to cross from turbo lift to centre seat. Since James Kirk first made the journey some five years ago, then braving a cross fire of appraising stares, some curious, some welcoming, and one, from the direction of the science station, frankly hostile in a manner only a supposedly emotionless Vulcan could pull off and avoid charges of insubordination, he must have crossed that space ten thousand times. His science officer could no doubt calculate the exact figure, including the distance travelled, to several decimal places, and, if pushed, reveal the point on that numerical scale when the hostility from over his right shoulder had been replaced first by frank curiosity and then warmth.

It's not a journey he's ever had cause to consider particularly significant but today is different. There have been multiple occasions over the last twenty-four hours when he seriously doubted he'd ever again sit in the Captain's chair. And judging by the reaction from his bridge crew he's not the only one. A bridge crew which seems to have... expanded since his last visit.

Kirk lowers himself into a seat still warm from the departing behind of his chief engineer. "Hello, Jake. Is there someone you'd like to introduce me to?"

The pirate has lost both his bandage and any visible wound but still manages a rakish grin. "Mom, this is--" but the tall woman beside him is already stepping forward and offering a firm handshake.

"Captain Kirk. Captain Glover at your service. It's an honour to meet you, sir."

"The pleasure's all mine, ma'am. I only wish it could be under better circumstances." Kirk swivels a quarter turn to his left. "Mr. Scott. Report. What's going on over there?"

It's an indication of his engineer's frustration that his Scottish brogue is more than usually impenetrable.

"There's no sign of them, sir. But dinnae ye fret. Mr. Spock and the security team will run them to ground. I'll wager they're hiding in a shielded store locker like the yellow bellied scum that they are-"

He gets no further when there's a sharp intake of breath from the direction of the communication station.

"Captain... I'm picking up a signal. From the  _Demeter_  bridge."

For a moment Kirk wonders if it's his First Officer but dismisses the thought before it has time to complete. Uhura wouldn't sound this grim if it were Spock on the other end of the link.

"On screen, Lieutenant."

The viewer fills with static then clears to reveal a familiar figure. Rawlson crouches, all dark tension in the centre seat, head bent to the controls. When he looks up Kirk sees the flash of something he recognises but can't quite name. An intensity of focus that is not - quite - sane. And there's something wrong. Something missing.

"Rawlson," Kirk says flatly. He's not going to attempt to appeal to the man's rank or history. That time has passed

"Kirk," comes back the snarl. "Back with your starship. Scurrying away behind your phasers and photon torpedoes rather than finish what you started. How typical"

Kirk doesn't dignify this with a response. "Time's up, Rawlson. A security team's on the way." He doesn't need to turn to see Scotty nod. "If you give yourself up without a fight now I can promise immediate medical attention. For you and your crewman."

The man in the _Demeter_ 's command chair is not listening. All his focus is on the controls in front of him. He seems almost abstracted.

"Give myself up? Well now. Let me think about that for a moment." Rawlson turns to the view screen, one finger on his chin in a parody of concentration. "Hmmm. Nope. Don't think I'll be doing that." He raises his eyebrows and looks quizzically at the ceiling. "Now here's an idea, Kirk. How about you give yourselves up instead?"

Kirk frowns at the screen, aware that the eyes of his bridge crew are monitoring his reaction to this absurd exchange. He forces himself to relax. To lean back in his chair and sling one leg over the other. To inject a note of amusement in his voice which is aimed less at the man at the other end of the comm link than at the crew who know their captain may be less than fighting fit.

"Well, Rawlson. It's an interesting idea. But here's the thing. You're outnumbered, outgunned and right now you're a few seconds away from arrest on at least fifty charges including murder."

Rawlson smiles. Never has Kirk seen an expression with less joy. "And right now, Captain. You're a few seconds away from obliteration."

"Sir. I'm detecting a strange signature from the  _Demeter_."

Kirk whips round to face Chekov who's at the science station

"What sort of signature?"

Chekov doesn't move his eyes from the scanner. "It's from one of the  _Demeter_  secondary transporter pads, sir. It's powering up. But there's no organic matter. Just…" Chekov adjusts the controls. "I don't understand..."

Now the ship's chief engineer is by Chekov's side. "Captain, I recognise that pattern. The wave. Beryllium -"

\- crystals", Kirk finishes for him. That's what was missing. That damn briefcase. And now Scott has taken a step back. He straightens his shoulders and for a split second his gaze wavers to take in the stares of a frozen bridge crew and a small boy who stands defiantly in front of the command chair. Oh, this is bad, thinks Kirk.

"Captain. He's locked the transporter onto our engine room. Onto the dilithium chamber. If he beams those crystals in there..."

He doesn't need to continue. Kirk knows the difference between Scotty voice of timely warning (animated, loud, prone to hyperbole) and Scotty voice of doom (resigned, flat, stoic).

"Shields, Mr. Scott."

The shake of the head is mournful.

"They're offline, Captain. I had to divert power when I reset the pattern buffers to counteract -"

"- the ore. Yes. Of course."

Death by minerals, thinks Kirk with the gallows humour part of his brain that always seems to kick in at times like this. They didn't warn us about this in astrogeology class.

His voice seems strangely remote. As if he's overhearing an automatically generated command. "Take us out of range, Mr. Sulu. Now."

"Aye aye, Captain." Sulu's fingers fly over the controls. But he's too slow. Kirk knows that even as he grips the armrest of his chair and watches the lights on his navigator's panel climb.

No. Not Sulu. _I_ was too slow, he thinks and wonders which why for once he doesn't seem have the energy to translate the familiar guilt into anger. He's a spectator on his own bridge.

A spectator watching several events happen at one and the same time.

On the viewscreen the doors behind Rawlson open to reveal Giotto, phaser drawn.

Behind him, a gasp from Chekov. "There's someone in the  _Demeter_  transporter room."

Spock, thinks Kirk. Of course, it has to be Spock. Turning up to save the day as always. But the lights of a hastily reconfigured control panel on the _Demeter_ bridge are already glowing green.

Rawlson stands. And laughs. A splintered thing.

"You're too late, gentlemen. Or rather, you're just in time. Say goodbye to the  _Enterprise_."

As the metallic whirr of the transporter fills both bridges, Kirk meets the eyes of the boy in front of him and knows there won't be time to say he's sorry.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But I have time to say sorry.
> 
> I know it's been bloody ages. Part of this was written many months ago. The rest in a sudden flurry this morning (inspired by some recent reviews -- thank you). The problem was that Spock simply would not go where he was directed. He stood there, arms behind his back, and flatly refused. So I had to restructure. I think there's one, possibly two chapters to go. Would love to know what you think.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finished. Can't believe it's finally finished.

_"Say goodbye to the_ Enterprise _."_

 

The flagship's First Officer, renowned for his efficiency in all things, can move fast when the occasion demands. The scene that now presents itself in the  _Demeter_ transporter room is one such occasion. The distorted voice, echoing through the ship's intercom, is mere background noise; a distant distraction from a sound Spock knows too well -- the electronic gulp that signals a successful pairing of pattern buffers and transporter pad. He has 1.78 seconds in which to act. 

On the glowing platform stands a briefcase. Its contents, Spock surmises in rather less than a third of the remaining time, have the potential to become a weapon of mass destruction. And behind the transporter controls stands a figure, face contorted in pain, fingers scrabbling over the controls as if seeking anchor. Barker. Spitting words under his breath. 

"Bastard." 

The insult is barely audible; the speaker appears to be using all his remaining energy to stay upright. 

The decision is straightforward. The case is closer than the man at the console. But even before Spock reaches the platform in a dive less elegant than he would have preferred, the sparkle flares and dies. A control slides upwards. Another ring glows. 

 

-oOo-

 

 _"Say goodbye to the_ Enterprise _."_

 

On the bridge of the fleet's flagship its captain realises he has closed his eyes. When he opens them it is to a tableau frozen in time and space. Rawlson's bulk obscures the burly figure of the  _Enterprise's_  chief of security. Who fires. At a silhouette outlined in gold. At... 

Nothing. 

Rawlson is gone, the outline fades, and for the briefest moment of hysteria Kirk thinks the impossible; that the universe, in a karmic nod to at least a dozen alien encounters over the past five years, has for once handed him psychokinetic powers; that he has made the man on the screen vanish by sheer force of will. The second, marginally less, impossible thought is that Giotto has fired a phaser set to kill on a starship bridge in direct contravention of at least eight safety regulations. 

But no -- Giotto is staring at his phaser in disbelief. 

Kirk gives himself a mental shake and thumbs the comms button in the arm of his chair. "Commander -- what's going on over there?" 

Giotto has the look of a man who has successfully swiped the conjuror's handkerchief only to find himself grasping air. He turns to face the screen. 

"He just vanished, Captain." He looks left and right as if Rawlson might be hiding under a console. "I'll start search parties immediately. He can't have gone far--" 

But Uhura is speaking over him. 

"Captain, it's Mr. Spock. On another channel." She touches her hand to her ear. "From the  _Demeter_ 's transporter room." 

At last. If anyone can make sense of this... 

"Put him through, Lieutenant... Spock?" The crackle of static is enough to send a ripple of unease. "Spock? Are you all right?" It's not the question he should be asking in front of the bridge crew but right now Kirk doesn't care. 

The voice that answers is careful. Measured. With a flat intonation Kirk recognises from times of past horror. Gods, what's going on over there? 

"Captain...search parties for Commander Rawlson will not be necessary." 

"What? Do you have him there?" Of course. Spock locked onto his signal and -- 

"No, sir. The Commander is..." The pause is so unlike his First Officer Kirk has a sudden vision. Spock. A phaser pressed to his temple. Hostage once more. 

"Spock?" He's standing now, halfway to Uhura’s station with no recollection of how he got there, when the link crackles back to life. 

"Apologies, Captain. I am now... I am holding Crewman Barker who is, I fear, deceased. The Commander is...also dead." 

"But the briefcase -- the Beryllium--"

"--remains on board, sir." Another pause. "If possible I would prefer to complete my report in person." 

"Yes. Of course." Kirk turns to Scotty who nods. "Transporter room, one to --"

“No!" The voice is harsh. Uhura looks startled. Never before has she heard the ship's First Officer interrupt the Captain mid-order. Spock seems to realise the impact on the bridge because he tempers his tone. "No, sir. With respect, I would prefer not to use the transporter at the present time." 

And Kirk hears the unspoken message. Hears, incredibly, his science officer allow emotion to trump the discipline that is not only part of his rank but woven into this DNA, and buries his fear of what that means in a flurry of orders. 

 

-oOo-

 

"So this man -- Walker?" 

"Barker," Spock corrects. 

"Barker," the Doctor says with a frown. "Right. Did he know what would happen? To Rawlson? To his pattern?" 

"Unclear. The crewman was in the terminal stages of cellular degradation and uncommunicative. Once the loop was activated and transport in progress he was in no fit state to answer questions." 

"But he managed to programme the transporter to beam Rawlson from the bridge, to the planet surface and...?" 

"And back again," finishes Kirk, keen to move the conversation on. He has rarely seen his friend look so bleak. McCoy seems oblivious. 

"Good god. So the duplication process... How did the pattern buffers...?" 

There are few disadvantages to an eidetic memory. However, the ready supply of a series of vivid images from past visual stimuli is, inevitably, one of them. Spock is aware that his weakened shields are currently unable to reduce his emotional response to recent events. Instead he must direct his energy to the only alternative -- suppression of any outward sign of the turmoil within. 

"The pattern buffers overloaded. Eventually." 

And there it is. The room falls silent as three men contemplate the process of accelerated molecular disintegration through space and time and the inadequacy and horror of that final word. 

McCoy's response is less than helpful. "Ye gods. What a mess." 

 

-oOo-

 

 

 

**Captain's log, Stardate 5314.7**

_The evacuation of Deneb III is finally complete. Commendations to Commanders Scott and Giotto and to Lieutenants Caron, Daruwaller and Singh for their exemplary work on the planet surface. And special commendation to Doctors McCoy and M'Benga and to Nurse Chapel. Without their expertise many more colonists from the_ _Demeter_ _would be on the casualty list._  

 _For the record I agree with my crew's assessment that the colony should be abandoned and quarantined, both for practical reasons and as a mark of respect to the many who have died._  

Kirk pauses. Despite his chief engineer's best efforts with the  _Enterprise_ 's reconfigured transporters, in what his CMO likened to a macabre game of pairs, their attempts to reunify those that had fallen victim to the duplication process had proved largely unsuccessful. Very few from the original team on Deneb had survived. Even fewer would be in a fit state to resume active service. The delay between duplication and reunification had proved to be the crucial limiting factor. Kirk does not intend to go into detail in his condolence letters to their families. 

He flicks the switch once more. 

 _We are now on our way to Starbase 4 to drop off Captain Glover, her crew and the remaining colonists. Many are now reconsidering their plans and I have promised that Starfleet will provide all possible assistance and transport as required._  

 _Meanwhile, while the_ Enterprise  _awaits further orders, I have received an unexpected request from my First Officer._  

He closes the log and swipes sideways to reveal the bland form beneath. No. The words haven’t changed. But Kirk’s world has. And suddenly he’s not sure where he is. 

-oOo-

 

The door chime is unwelcome. It is not, however, unexpected. 

Spock uncurls himself from the meditation mat which, for all the help it has offered over the past 73 minutes, would be more properly described by noun alone, and exhales. It is definitely an exhalation. It is not a sigh. If it were a sigh then the entire period that has elapsed since he entered his quarters and replaced his uniform with his robes has been, in retrospect, a pointless experiment in measured respiration. 

He exhales again, this time with enough direction and focus to extinguish the flame. 

His third exhalation -- he has been counting breaths, to no apparent effect, for so long it is proving difficult to abandon the rhythm -- is used to speak a single word. 

"Enter." 

The door slides open but the figure who stands silhouetted at the entrance does not immediately act on the invitation. Kirk stands uncertainly on the threshold, a man who is rarely uncertain in anything he does, and the sight of his Captain thus stranded is enough to risk unbalancing Spock's already fragile equilibrium. A fourth breath and then a fifth do little to slow the spike in his heart rate. 

"Is this a good time, Spock? I don't want to disturb you." Kirk takes in the scent of incense and glances at the uniform discarded, unfolded, on the bed. "I can come back." 

For the briefest of moments Spock considers replying in the affirmative.  _"In fact, Captain, this is not a good time. Might we postpone our discussion to a later date?" Preferably a date beyond the one which he recently entered in the log as the_ Enterprise's _estimated arrival time at Starbase 4._  

Yet this conversation has been inevitable since the moment he pressed 'send' on the request. Since before that moment. Since he took a decision in a room now buried at the end of a Starfleet sealed tunnel on a planet some 675 light years distant. 

"Please, Captain. Come in." 

Kirk moves slowly towards the indicated chair but he does not sit. Neither does he look his First Officer in the eye. 

"I'm sorry to call so late. I made a promise to Jake. To give him the full tour before he leaves. In the end I wasn't sure who was guiding whom. Did you know deck eight had four Jefferies tubes added during our last refit? He's managed to map the lot. No wonder he's always popping up where we least expect him." 

Spock is a little lightheaded with relief at the chosen subject for conversation. Breathe out. Twelve. His heartbeat slows. "Indeed. I have already agreed to provide the young man with a reference when he applies to Starfleet. Which I suspect may be somewhat earlier than the academy expects."

Kirk smiles but it lacks the usual warmth. An awkward pause and, in the region of a Vulcan abdomen, a sinking sensation. Kirk is examining the _asenoi_ on the desk with more attention than the object deserves. He is tapping his thumb with his finger. A tiny movement, almost a tic. 

"So... No new orders yet. I suspect Command don't quite know what to do with us." 

Spock inclines his head. He concurs with Kirk's suspicion. There is little useful time remaining between the prescribed end of the  _Enterprise's_ five year mission and their likely departure from Starbase 4 following the necessary restocking, restaffing and debriefing. The order to return to Earth is all but inevitable. Which means it would be illogical to delay -- 

"So were you planning any sort of conversation with me before I forward this... 'request' to Starfleet?" 

Kirk is apparently finished with the small talk. Spock is belatedly aware that the impression of tension around the shoulders of his commanding officer may speak less of a concern for intrusion into Vulcan personal space and more of an attempt to control conflicting emotions. Anger? Worry? He dare not risk lowering his already perilously weakened shields to find out. Breathe in. Then out. Eighteen, nineteen. 

"I considered a conversation would be premature. If Starfleet were unable to grant my request then--" 

Kirk turns then, eyes narrowed. "Oh please, Spock. You know they'll grant your request. On your record alone." 

Yes, there's anger there although Kirk speaks quietly. And something else. Disappointment. Spock winces inwardly. "And when has Starfleet ever missed an opportunity to score points with Vulcan High Command? You know they'll rubberstamp your secondment. As soon as I send the form through you're as good as gone." 

Kirk looks down at his fingers now grasping the back of a chair he seems unlikely to use. His voice lowers further. "Spock. What happened back there on the  _Demeter_ , what you saw..." He lifts his head, eyes dark. "You haven't talked about it but perhaps you should. If not to me, then to Bones. Or to M'Benga -- he trained on Vulcan, he'll have experience of --" 

 

"No." Spock swallows. "No, Captain. You are mistaken. The...events I witnessed on board the  _Demeter_ , they are not the motivation for my request." 

"Then why..?" Kirk's gaze is searching. "Spock. You know I won't stand in your way if it's what you really want." Spock says nothing; momentarily he finds the vocabulary he needs is absent. All he can come up with are numbers. Twenty two. Twenty three. After a moment Kirk pushes the chair away and crosses to the viewing port, speaking into the void. 

"It's just...I thought...Look, I know the mission is at an end. It's probably just as well. This crew needs to move on. God knows, the bridge crew are all overdue promotion. Most of them should have jumped ship months ago. And we're tired. We're all tired." For a terrible moment the shoulders sag. But with a tiny shake Kirk pulls himself upright and crosses back to the desk. "But you...you know as well as I do we're supposed to be the best command pairing in the fleet. I've no idea what Command has got planned for me but I had hoped...I do have some sway with Nogura." He thumps his fist lightly on desk, frustrated that his usual eloquence has deserted him. "Damn it, I mean--" 

"I know what you mean, Captain." Spock takes a step forward. Then regrets it. There is already too much emotional weight loading the air which separates them. He turns away, standing shoulder to shoulder with his Captain, and addresses the empty air. 

"Until recently I also had hopes that we might continue to serve together. That we might find a way. However--" 

"Until recently? So what's changed? I know this past mission has been difficult for you. For all of us. But we've been through tough missions before. Worse even..." Kirk trails away and both of them stare into the shadows of memories they prefer not to revisit. 

This conversation is becoming unbearable. Kirk seems to sense it too. "Perhaps it's time I did something about that unblemished record." Said with an attempt at lightness that falls entirely flat. "See whether that throws a spanner in the works." 

"Sir?" 

"I could bring you up on charges. For disobeying a direct order." 

Spock thinks back rapidly over recent days. He has a suspicion that, with the unerring instinctive reasoning in which his Captain specialises, they have arrived at the heart of the matter they need to discuss. He resists the temptation to look wistfully up at the light over the door that becomes active in the event of a red alert. 

"If you are referring to the events which took place in the underground control room of Deneb III," he says carefully. "Then I do not recall an order being given...Or disobeyed." 

Kirk frowns. "Semantics, Spock. You lied to Rawlson. You were well aware of my view of your actions. Yet you walked to onto that transporter pad in full knowledge that you were putting your life on the line. Where was your logic, science officer? We knew I could survive the division. I'd done it before after all." A beat. Only Spock knows the enormity of the experience buried beneath this bald statement of fact. Kirk hurries on. "But you...with your physiognomy... It could have killed you, Spock." For an alarming moment Spock thinks his Captain is about to touch him. But Kirk lifts his hand to his temple, covering his eyes with splayed fingers. "For a while there, I thought it had." 

It is time. To avoid the conversation that must be conducted when provided with such an opening would be an act of cowardice. 

"Captain..." Lost in his own thoughts, Kirk does not appear to hear him. It is imperative that he listens. "Jim..." Startled, the hand drops. Spock steels himself to meet the hazel gaze. "The decision I made on Deneb III is connected to my request, and I must apologise for causing you concern. Although I cannot in all conscience claim that had you been able to verbalise the order to desist I would have acted differently." 

Unbidden, the image of Kirk, paralysed and furious, feet scrabbling across the floor arises and Spock brushes it aside. "It is true I was unwilling to allow you to undergo the duplication process a second time. Neither of us can be sure your cells would have survived such trauma again." 

"That was not your decision to make, First Officer." Kirk's eyes flash, all attempt at lightness abandoned. "As captain of this ship I decide when to put lives on the line. God knows I've had to make enough of those decisions over the past five years and sometimes there is no alternative. But it's my choice. You are second in command. If you want to set your own orders, you can get your own damn ship." 

The room falls silent while both examine the words that lie before them. At last Kirk sits down heavily. When he speaks again, his voice is low. 

"Is that what you want, Spock? Is that why you want to leave? To command a Vulcan ship?" 

"As you are well aware, I have no wish to command." 

Kirk's frustration bleeds though. "So why...?" He spreads his hands on the desk in front of him as if trying to measure his thoughts by handspan. "Why return to Vulcan? I know the VSA would kill to have you but you'll be stuck in a lab. Out there --" he waves his hand at the viewing port, at the streaking stars, "That's where the real science is. Look at what you've already achieved. At least a dozen of your papers are required reading at the Academy. At both academies. You've got nothing to prove on Vulcan." 

"If my request is granted, I do not intend to join the Vulcan science academy." Spock takes a deep breath. How many is that? He has lost count. "I have made an application to the Masters of Gol to spend a period of time--" 

"Gol!" Kirk exclaims, and he's on his feet once more. Spock ploughs on doggedly 

"-- to spend a period of time under instruction at that facility to enable me to examine some matters of personal importance. I would ask you, Captain, to respect my decision. I do not take it lightly." 

Kirk's fists are clenched. Unfortunately he knows too much about the acolytes of Gol. The concept of stripping all emotion, of arriving at a state of pure logic, of Kolinahr, has been the subject of much discussion in the abstract. Now, watching his Captain pace, Spock curses those late night conversations. 

"But Gol. Of all places..." He hesitates, then frowns. "Hold on, how does this relate to what we're discussing? To the transporter room on Deneb III?" 

Spock closes his eyes. Then opens them again. 

"I have had cause to re-consider the events to which you refer in recent days. In fact, what transpired has occupied much of my thinking. My motive for acting as I did was not entirely clear to me at the time."

For a moment he has a sense of standing on the edge of a precipice. He is dizzy. But there is no way back. Only the jump. "And, on reflection, I must conclude that my decision to risk division on the transporter platform was not...entirely...altruistic." 

"Not entirely..." Kirk stops, the full implication of what he's just heard sinking in. "You  _wanted_ that. To divide, to become--?" 

"Not consciously no." Spock swallows hard. The room appears to have become smaller in the last few seconds. "As I say I was not fully cognisant of my subconscious imperative at the time. However, I have since realised that under circumstances where both our lives were forfeit, the concept that I might, in dying, bear witness to a separation of the two halves -- of my two halves -- had a certain...appeal." 

Kirk stares at him in horror. Remembering a conversation in sickbay in orbit above Alpha 177, 

 _Being split in two halves is no theory with me, Doctor. I have a human half, you see, as well as an alien half, submerged, constantly at war with each other._  

Constantly at war. 

That was the first time he'd heard Spock refer to his inner human -- in fact almost the first time his proudly Vulcan science officer had made any mention of his hybrid heritage. 

He'd had more clues on the way to the conference on Babel, that conversation with Amanda. But over the years Kirk has watched an evolution. The aloof officer whose conversation rarely strayed from reports and regulations, who used data to both distance and distract, whose reaction to McCoy's jibes was either blank incomprehension or hostility -- that being is a distant memory. Now the science station is manned by someone whose empathy informs a razor sharp intellect, who has proved he can extrapolate emotion alongside graphs and sine waves, who gives as good as he gets on the teasing front. He'd lulled himself into a false sense of security that Spock too had grown to embrace both sides of himself -- the very best of two worlds. He'd kidded himself, even patted himself on the back, that he'd been part of that process. When all the time...Suddenly he's flooded with compassion. 

 _Oh Spock._  

He can't help himself. For a fatal moment he reaches out a hand to grasp his friend's shoulder, to try to convey some of what he's feeling, to offer support. It is a mistake. Spock moves away as if the outstretched fingers are not flesh but flame. 

"As a result of my experience I have concluded that I cannot continue in my present condition. For too long I have been attempting to become something I am not. To turn my back on my heritage. I have been following a false path, an easier path perhaps, but one which leads away from the self-knowledge I seek. If my subconscious mind could conclude that physical division would be a positive step then it is clear I have barely begun that journey." 

"Spock, I had no idea... But please...your answers cannot possibly lie with those closed minded fanatics on Gol. They won't even understand the question. They'll steam-roller their logic all over the last five years and dismiss everything you've achieved. Everything you are." 

But Spock has visibly retreated in the face of Kirk's reaction. His voice hardens and he draws himself up, face closed.

"You cannot possibly understand the methods of the Masters on Mount Seleya. It is not possible for a human to comprehend the higher planes of logic, the calibre of the minds dedicated to the eradication of emotional weakness --” He stops, seemingly aware that this description is doing nothing to mitigate Kirk’s hostility. His tone softens. “Once again, Captain, I must ask you as my commanding officer to respect that this is my decision to make." He turns to face Kirk, and for a moment his eyes lose their shuttered look. Is that a plea? An apology? "And I must ask you, as my friend, to support my request." 

And it is at that moment Kirk knows he has lost. And that nothing will ever be the same again. 

-oOo-

 

In the subsequent days the following events occur:

Certain conversations are overheard while a bottle of single malt is being consumed in the rec room of Starbase 4. As a result a report reaches Starfleet command that the  _Enterprise’s_ transporters have been reconfigured in a fashion which not only breaks every safety protocol but should be impossible. In the light of the looming five year deadline the flagship is designated inactive and ordered home for refit.

 A conversation between James Kirk and Heihachiro Nogura in which various options are proposed and discussed including a planet side promotion the Admiral is perfectly sure will be rejected. To his surprise, and delight, he is wrong.

 The departure of a shuttlecraft from Starbase Four to dock with a freighter bound for Vulcan. It returns minus one passenger.

 A small explosion in sickbay when these facts reach the ears of the ship's chief medical officer.

 

-oOo-

 

Medical rank has its privileges. Leonard McCoy can access the Captain's quarters at any time. In five years he's used his over-ride exactly twice. On the first occasion the cabin's occupant was found to be unconscious. On the second, he'd been kidnapped. McCoy has evidence that neither of these circumstances are of concern right now. That's partly because the  _Enterprise_  is currently safely docked several dozen light years from space borne viruses or hostile aliens. But mostly it's because of the shouting. 

"Go away, Bones." 

The only reason he's hesitating to use his over-ride a third time is the paperwork likely to be involved if Kirk chooses to be ornery. He's sounding very ornery right now. Particularly when his door chime is leaned on emphatically for the fourth time. 

"It's late! I'll see you tomorrow." 

"Yeah? That's what you said yesterday." 

Fifth time's a charm. 

The door slides open and now the voice from inside is weary. 

"Give it a rest, Doctor." McCoy has a brief pang of guilt. It's obvious the man leaning there in stockinged feet, hair askew, is the one who should be resting. But, judging by the pile of stacked data discs behind him on the desk, that's not part of the plan. 

"You gonna ask me in or do I have to drink this in the corridor?" He waves the green bottle he's been saving for emergencies. He reckons this qualifies. 

Kirk glowers. Then turns and walks back to the desk. Taking this as an invitation McCoy follows him in and looks round for glasses. 

"Want one?" 

Kirk picks up a disc. "What I want doesn't seem to hold much weight round here." 

"Well, I do. Just had some bad news and need to wash away the taste. Ah..." This last is aimed at the tumblers which have been moved from their usual cubby hole to a box on the floor. Underneath, piled up in a way that suggests Kirk is currently lacking a yeoman, are stacks of books and the metal case McCoy knows holds the Captain's medals. "You packing up already?" 

Kirk doesn't reply. He's holding the disc up to the light as if he can decipher its contents without recourse to hardware. It's discarded in favour of another colour. 

McCoy pours two fingers of violent green viscosity into two tumblers and slides one across between the piles on the desk. 

"I said I had some bad news." 

Kirk is scrolling down the screen. "I heard you." The reflected light does nothing to illuminate his eyes. 

"She's done it. Put in the official request last night." 

A flicker. Then a frown at the screen. "I haven't seen anything in my comms queue." 

"That's 'cos I haven't approved it yet." McCoy takes a long swallow. "She won't talk to me. Like a lot of folks round here." 

Kirk ignores the jibe, still scrolling. "You know Chapel can't stay a nurse forever. If she's asking for a transfer it's because--" 

"It's not a transfer request. It's a resignation." 

"Ah." The scrolling stops. 

"Wait a minute. You knew about this," said accusingly. Kirk purses his lips. "You  _knew_  about this. And you said nothing." 

"I may have had a conversation." Kirk picks up the glass in front of him. He eyes its contents with suspicion. "Didn't think she'd go through with it." 

"Did you even try to--?" 

"--yes, I tried." He slams the glass down. "Dammit, Bones. Of course, I tried. But she's had enough. This last mission...it really got to her. And it's over anyway. We're heading home in a few days. She knows that. I'd hoped she'd stay in the service. But she's talking about going back to medical school." 

"Can't see the point of that," McCoy grumbles. "She's had more field experience than any of them damn planetside medics. I taught her everything she knows, everything she needs to know --" 

"And as long as she stays in your sickbay, she'll always be your nurse. Maybe she wants more. Maybe she wants her own title, her own sickbay. People make their own decisions, Bones. And there's not much you or I can do about it." 

McCoy stares pointedly into the pause that follows. Kirk refuses to meet his gaze. But he does pick up the glass again. "Don't go there, Bones. I know why you're here. Why you're really here. And I'm not in the mood." 

"So he's really gone then? Taken his toys home to Vulcan. Did you two have a fight or something?" 

"Something," agrees Kirk, and lifts the glass to his lips. 

McCoy watches with interest as he takes a sip and the flush spreads. When Kirk can speak, his voice is husky. 

"Where did you...?” He coughs.” No. Forget that. I don't want to know." 

"Just as well, cos I ain't telling. But if we're heading back I need to get rid. It needs careful handling. Can't risk some officious fleet type crawling over my luggage and finding it. Could be dangerous." 

"For you or for the ship?" 

"Both, Jimbo. Both." A twinkle and this seems like a good moment but he barely gets as far as, “So-o-” before Kirk holds up a hand. 

"Look, Bones, I'm serious. I know how much you love to drag my psyche out into the light and give it a good pummelling, but I'm fine. He's gone. The mission's over. And to be honest I'm ready to head home." He takes another swallow and holds his glass up to the light. "You know just for once I'd like to be able to knock back your illegal hooch and not have to worry about the universal law that dictates red alerts and hangovers always coincide." 

McCoy looks at him thoughtfully, and takes gulp of his own drink. "To be honest eh? And when were you going to tell me about this conversation with Nogura? Little bird tells me you're talking about a job at headquarters. Giving up field command." 

Kirk's jaw sets into a grim line. 

"Doctor, I'm warning you--" 

And now it's McCoy's turn to slam down his glass. "Goddamn it, Jim. You're not thinking straight. Running away to sit behind a desk isn't the answer. Go after him. Change his mind. He's a stubborn son of a bitch but he'll come round--" 

"This has nothing to do with--" 

"Yeah, yeah. And my aunt Annie's a prize poodle. Save it for your Fleet chums back at base. I know you, Jim. I know him. And I know you two belong together on the bridge of starship. Going off in a huff -- that ain't like you, that ain't--" 

Kirk stands with a crash. "That's enough, Doctor." Both hands on the desk, he draws himself up and suddenly it doesn't matter about the stockinged feet or the mussed up hair, he's every inch a starship captain. "That's enough. I've made my decision. Spock's made his. Neither of us has to run it by you first." 

McCoy stands too. "Ok, ok. I came here tonight as your friend. But you're not the only one who can pull rank. Neither of you is in a fit state to make life-changing choices right now. And, if I have to, I'll make sure the powers that be know that." 

Kirk looks dangerous. "What are you saying?" 

"I'm saying you both nearly died back there on Deneb III. You put your lives on the line for this ship, for those colonists and for each other." Kirk draws breath but McCoy stops him with a finger. "And don't try telling me that's par for the course. This was personal. Rawlson and that photo. That blasted ore from Alpha 177. I know what that cost you, Jim. I was there, remember?" 

The two men glower at each other. Kirk gives way first. He sinks into his chair, his face as grey as McCoy's ever seen it. "I'm just tired, Bones. That's all. I'm not the youngest captain in the fleet any more. It's time to give someone else a chance in the centre chair." He looks round at the cabin, at the empty shelves. "Five years is a long time away from home." 

"I'm not saying you don't need rest, Jim. Last time I checked Starfleet owed you about six months shore leave. So take it. But don't give up your command." He reaches for bottle; pours two more generous measures. "I don't work for headquarters. I'm a doctor not a... Oh yes, that's right. I'm a doctor." He sits, leans forward on both elbows. "And I'm telling you as  _your_  doctor -- walk away from the job you're born to do and you'll regret it. Walk away from Spock and you might as well leap into one of Rawlson's contaminated transporters right now. That pointy eared hobgoblin is part of who you are." He stops, pulse thumping in his throat... Damned fool, McCoy. This time you've gone too far.

But Kirk seems thoughtful. He traces a finger round the rim of the glass. "So that's what you think? That we don't work apart?" 

"Well, that's not what I meant, and not what I said...exactly," McCoy blusters. "Of course you do. It's just that together--" 

"Together we're some sort of magic formula. I don't blame you for saying that. I've caught myself thinking..." He looks up from his drink, eyes dark. "But don't you see, Bones? That's why I've got to let him go. That's why I've got to try something new; to forge a different future for myself. To prove I can, before it's too late." He pushes his chair back from the desk. "Spock didn't put me on the bridge of a starship. In fact, as I recall he wasn't too happy about the idea. What was it he said?  _'Evidence of immaturity. Lacks command experience.'_  ”McCoy looks up, startled. “Oh yes, I saw those messages to Starfleet. Gary hacked in and showed me before I came aboard. He thought it was hilarious." 

"That was long time ago, Jim. Before he even met you. What matters is what happened next. The two of you--" 

Kirk's voice is firm. "What matters is I made my own path then. And I can do it again. I can't rely on Spock or anyone else." McCoy drops his head; stares down at his fingers cradling reflected green light. "Oh, don't look so mournful, Bones. You're my friend. You'll always be my friend. But don't pretend you haven't been putting out feelers beyond Starfleet. What about that little practice in the country you're always talking about? Chapel tells me you may have found somewhere." 

McCoy flushes. "It's just an idea. Nothing's sorted." 

"Well, I say go for it. Forget Chapel, forget me, forget Spock. Put yourself first for a change, Bones. No-one else will." He stands, glass in hand. "The universe is an unforgiving place. I didn't need Deneb III to teach me that. We live alone, we die alone.” He raises his drink and smiles. “But hey, there's no law says we can't make a difference along the way.” He drains the glass. "Now, if you'll forgive me, Doctor, for once I'm going to take your advice and head for bed." 

It's only when he stands in the corridor, bottle half empty, hand and shoulder still warm from a firm grip, that McCoy realises he's been thoroughly Kirked. He's been given an eminently sensible line of reasoning and now has no evidence to populate his threatened psyche report. Far from seeming on the brink of breakdown, the last few minutes suggest his Captain has done what he always does; bounced back from a trauma that would have shredded a lesser man. 

Yet as he turns to walk away from those closed doors, still blinking from the memory of the full-on dazzle that, for those seconds, had him convinced he was sharing a drink with the Kirk of old, he can't, quite, shake the feeling that he's been had.

 

FIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there we are. This is my attempt to join the dots between TOS and TMP. I fear my attempt to stick to the spirit of the series may have become sidetracked by a little too much angst along the way but couldn't resist. Any feedback from fans very welcome.


End file.
